Embers
by Copper Oxide
Summary: In the quaint kingdom of Villon lives a boy stripped of his nobility, living under the iron fist of his evil step-mother. His fear-induced stutter and quiet nature proves to be an obstacle when he is met with the gallant Prince of the neighboring kingdom.
1. Prologue

A long, long time ago, in a land far, far away, there was a kingdom named Villon.

In that kingdom lived a young boy named Kurt Hummel.

Kurt was too young to have lost so much, so quickly.

It had been a bitter four years since his father, Lord Burt Hummel, lost his wife to illness. Their manor, which sat atop a shallow hill in the outskirts of the small kingdom of Villon, had since then become a slightly more hollow shell of what it had been before. Lady Elizabeth Hummel's radiance no longer seeped through every room of the rustic mansion, filling their home with a light that was entirely her own.

She loved and was loved in return, by both her husband and their little baby boy, Kurt. However, that doesn't change the tragedy that was her untimely death.

Kurt had been barely old enough to remember her when she passed, but the years that followed had him feeling that there was a distinct hole in his home that could never quite be fixed. He found himself yearning for soft hands he could never again be held in, for that light melodious voice that would always, without fail, sing him to sleep.

Lord Hummel tried his very hardest to keep their house a home- if not for the sake of his son, for the sake of his late wife. As bright, young Kurt rediscovered his footing in this world with shaky steps, so did his father. To each other, they meant the world. For a while, it was just the two of them. It was lonelier, yes- but they were never alone.

One day, as fate should have it, Burt met another woman.

She was charming, sophisticated, and had an air of dignity. A widowed lady of status, with two young daughters around Kurt's age. She was no match for the beauty that Elizabeth had been, of course, but Burt had been skeptical about raising a child on his own. The kingdom _did_ judge those families who were missing either maternal or paternal figure; deeming the child would grow up unbalanced. He wouldn't want to place Kurt at a disadvantage later in life.

And so, he entered his second marriage with Lady Tourneboulle, and their family of two became a family of five. Kurt is six when the home he once shared with his mother and father became one he also shared with three strangers.

For the most part, Lady Tourneboulle did not speak frequently with Kurt. When his father was courting her, she was pleasant and friendly towards him, as all prospective mothers should be. After they got married, however, things grew cold. It confused the young boy and he was hurt when his step-mother refused to meet his gaze or talk to him as she would with her two daughters.

Clementine and Beatrice were not much nicer. Although they were cultured, well educated in the arts, and both blessed with good looks, neither had a very good attitude. They had always kept to themselves, even from the beginning, and largely avoided Kurt. Kurt found that, while the house was full, he always felt very alone. When his father was not at home, he found himself spending his time reading books in their little library or talking to the cook, Agatha, in the kitchen. Agatha was a lovely lady who had been treated well by Elizabeth and Burt, and so she was always willing to talk to the lonely little boy. She pitied how the child had lost his mother, and how he always looked so unhappy when he was on his own. She'd always slip him a little treat whenever he was looking particularly down, but even that would only cheer him up so much.

Tourneboulle, however, was smart with her neglect. Whenever Lord Hummel was around, she would fuss over Kurt and Burt would smile gratefully at her, thankful that he'd found someone who cared about his little boy as much as he did. When his father wasn't around, she'd revert to her negligent ways. At Kurt's young age, he would only grow more confused about her schizophrenic antics and simply couldn't understand why she changed so often. To him, it was completely arbitrary behavior.

What also saddened Kurt was that, with the renewed presence of a mother figure, Burt was able to invest more time in his business and was hence forced to spend more time away from the house. It made the time he _did _spend at home much more special, but Kurt would always express how much he'd missed him when he got home and ask him to stay for longer. He'd love to, he really would, but his family has grown larger now and the noble house of Hummel needed to maintain its financial status. Although Burt Hummel became an increasingly busier man, he was still determined to be the best father he could be and watch his son grow into the wonderful young man he knew he'd be.

Unfortunately, fate was not merciful.

It would be a year later when Burt Hummel would fall ill, precisely on his son's seventh birthday. It was a relatively small celebration as Kurt didn't have very many friends at school, but it was still lavish. It's not every day that his little man turns seven, after all. There was food, wine, gifts and plenty of good spirit all around. He was watching his son eagerly blow out the candles on his cake, a big grin on his face, when he first began to feel a little nauseous. When Kurt's smiling face met his father's, his grin quickly went away as he saw his father was not feeling well. He was too warm and he had turned very, very pale.

"We've got to get you to bed, Papa," young Kurt said, sagely, as he abandoned his already-forgotten birthday cake and took his father's hand, about to lead him to his bedroom. It had been quite a few years since their mother had passed, and while Burt was learning to take care of his son, his son was also learning to take care of his father. While young, the bright boy learnt quickly and was of much help.

"Now's not the time to be playing hospital, Kurt," Lady Tourneboulle said briskly, pulling his hand away from Burt's. "I'll take care of this."

This had been the first time in years that his Papa hadn't had Kurt's help when he was ill.

They called the doctors in shortly, and it turned out to be much graver than they had expected. Kurt sat vigil over his father whenever Tourneboulle was not there to whisk him away, willing him with all his might to get better.

"You can't leave now, Papa," Kurt would whisper when they were alone. "We've just lost Mama; and then where would I be without you?"

A week from then, Burt can sense his condition had gotten much, much worse. He calls for his son, who had been praying so hard that every night, he'd pray until he'd fall asleep. Little Kurt immediately holds his father's hand when he comes in, and Lord Hummel's heart breaks a little more when he sees his son's eyes are swollen and red from crying.

His father passes away that day, Kurt's hands around his, in his sleep.

"_Take care of the family, son."_

His last wish, after all his assurances of love and strength, was an unreasonably large request to make to a child as young as Kurt. Nonetheless, it was still was his last dying request, and Kurt was old enough to know how much weight that carried.

Kurt cried and cried, holding onto his father's hands as if his life depended on it, but no amount of tears will give his father the strength to squeeze his hand back ever again. The boy's world had just left this earth, and even in his youth, he is painfully aware that he is never going to be his world again. He's never going to get to see Kurt grow into a man. He won't be there at his wedding. Kurt is all too familiar with death and it has taken from him everything he's ever loved.

At the tender age of seven, Kurt Hummel became completely alone in this world.


	2. Chapter 1

"'Cedes!" Kurt calls, beckoning the young girl at the back of the store to come out.

"In a minute!" she hollers back, doing something or another in the kitchens.

Kurt stands in the small bakery and waits for his best and only friend to finish up. A heavy, burlap shopping sack is slung over his shoulder, filled with groceries and supplies for which he'd come to the market for. He decides to give his sore back a rest and carefully sets the bag on the flour-crusted wooden floor.

Kurt is now seventeen. A tall lad with a slight frame, but has grown strong from all the manual work he's had to do at his position as the house of Hummel's servant. Despite his less-than-pleasant living conditions, it is in his nature to be well-groomed, so he stands in the bakery of the Jones family looking like an ordinary customer as opposed to a lowly servant. His pallid face is always clean and his burnt-sienna hair is combed back neatly. The only thing that gives him away is the burlap bag, his calloused hands, and his somewhat ratty tunic.

Mercedes' family owned the best bakery in all of Villon. It was situated right at the heart of the market square, making it an easy place to drop by when Kurt did his weekly rounds. Over time, they had become friends, and to Kurt, this weekly meeting is his only outlet of emotion. He doesn't know what he'd do without Mercedes- she's the only person he can talk to without restraint. His stutter becomes much more bearable and less noticeable around her, because he's so much more relaxed.

When Mercedes appears, she comes through the door with her arms laden with freshly baked buns. The open doorway lead to the ovens, allowing the delicious smell of baking bread to waft into the room, making Kurt's stomach growl. He hadn't eaten all day.

"Hey Kurt!" she smiles, setting the wooden tray on a mahogany desk. She gives the boy a quick hug, but not before dusting herself free of flour. When they pull away, they seat themselves on tall stools on opposite sides of the table.

"You said you had some hot gossip t-to t-tell me?"

"Grab a bun, boo, I can tell you're starving."

Kurt picks up a hot bun in both his hands and quickly drops it again, before attempting to pick it up again without burning his hands off.

"T-thanks, 'Cedes," he says, smiling appreciatively at the girl.

Mercedes then leans in and whispers conspirationally, "So, rumour has it that the Prince of the next kingdom over's looking for a match _here,_ in Villon."

"N-no way! Cross-kingdom marriage?"

"It's all the rage nowadays."

Villon was a rather powerless kingdom, as far as kingdoms go. They were a small and humble people, living quiet, content lives in a peacefully run kingdom. Villon wasn't an awfully exciting place, nor was it very significant. It was overall, a mediocre empire, but that also meant they were never on the offensive and were safe from petty things like war.

The neighboring kingdom of Gaveston, where this alleged visiting Prince hailed from, was far more notable. They had an excellent military force and were renowned for their genius battle strategies. They were not a kingdom to challenge- many a rival had fallen at their feet.

Fortunately, Gaveston shared a border with the quaint, tranquil, non-violent little kingdom of Villon, Kurt's hometown. There was never any conflict between the two and they maintained wonderful inter-kingdom relations. They co-existed easily with one another, even if they were in such close proximity.

The back yard of Kurt's manor actually leads to the wood that separates the two kingdoms. The noble Lord Hummel and several generations before him inhabited that mansion at the very edge of Villon, and while its distance from the center of the kingdom was not desirable, the area happened to be very picturesque. Despite its closeness, no one really goes into the woods, and that helps keep things amicable between the two sides.

"He's supposed to show up sometime this week," she continues. "visiting the castle, of course, say hi to them royals, as well as most of the noble houses."

"Oh."

Kurt is _technically_ of noble descent, if not for the fact that he has been reduced to a status of a slave since his father's passing. Of course, it's still in his birthright and he still has eligibility to marry royalty, but Madam Tourneboulle would never stand for it. She refuses to acknowledge his aristocracy because she firmly believes that if she ignores it enough, it will go away. Everyone in his village knows all about it, of course, and they've all thrown him a pity party, etc, etc, but none dare say anything to the vicious woman. She bared her teeth and claws almost immediately after his father died, and Kurt quickly became terrified of her as she could finally have her way with him. Being so young when it happened, he really had no other choice to comply. You could tell the village was sympathetic, but no one really… cared. They accepted the fact that the poor nobleman's boy had been struck down to servant status by his evil step-mother, and that there was nothing they could do about it.

Eventually, Tourneboulle's bullying and neglect took its toll on young Kurt. He began to flinch at sudden noises or movements and became much more nervous. Tourneboulle often hit him when he did something she deemed as wrong. He learned to never outwardly express his feelings- why, making an offhanded comment would have already prompted a wave of anger. To her, this boy was worth nothing, and was to be treated as nothing more. The boy became fearful of her and that, in turn, made him very quiet. He was forced to bottle up fear, anxiety, hatred and desperation if he wanted to return unbruised to his new quarters (the servant room by the stable) every night. His demons haunted him at night and this, paired with the terrors that Tourneboulle instilled into him, resulted in his very noticeable stutter. When the stutter got worse, around ten years old, Madam would ridicule him horridly. It was simply another defect in an already hopeless boy. Since then, not only was Kurt careful to not talk, he also became insecure to do it.

All of Burt Hummel's assets were to be used to maintain her and her daughters' extravagant lifestyle. In order to do that, she fired a great deal of the house's servants and forced Kurt to undertake their jobs instead, to alleviate fees. Of course, in his young age, he was not physically capable to do much, but as he aged, she had been able to reduce the staff one by one until it was just Kurt taking care of the entire mansion and its inhabitants on his own.

There is a reason why Kurt wakes up at 5 o' clock every morning and goes to bed at midnight. Tourneboulle is careful to work him to the bone, so that she wrings every last ounce of use out of him. Every night he falls asleep exhausted and overworked, having to run around the mansion doing a dozen things at once, and Kurt's job has no ending. He works full time, with barely any breaks. The only time he is able to steal away for a while is when he does his weekly shopping rounds, like he is now. He is able to stall a little, talk to Mercedes, watch some of the town's entertainment, maybe go for a walk. It's a very short escape, but it's better than nothing.

"You're still in the running, boo."

Kurt gives her a sigh of resignation, looking down at the last piece of his bun.

"Don't, Mercedes. Don't p-pret-tend."

He's had a lifetime of feeling sorry for himself; for everything he's lost, for everything that's happened. He is beyond the point of mourning what was his promising future and has accepted that all he is now is a lowly servant to a heartless family of cruel women. It has been drilled into his head firmly enough, and trying to convince himself of otherwise will only hurt him more.

"I'm just saying, Kurt. You have just as much of a right- hell, _more_ of a right than they do. It's in your blood."

"Even then, who's to s-say that the P-prince is…" Kurt takes a moment to check that the coast is clear- "...like me?"

"Never say never," Mercedes replies, nodding sagely. "It could happen. Gaveston was the first kingdom to legalize it, after all."

And the _only_ kingdom to legalize it, Kurt thinks. In every other kingdom, you'd be torn apart at the seams had they found out you preferred the company of your own gender. Even kindly old Villon looked down upon it.

"Y-you're j-just raising my hopes," Kurt replies, a bit of scorn in his voice. "You know it just a-as well as I d-do."

The air tenses between them slightly, but Mercedes just sighs. It breaks her heart a little how jaded Kurt has grown to become, but she knows it's only right. He's been through so much, it's impossible to not have hardened under all that stress. Better that than caving in.

"I b-" Kurt's tongue stills involuntarily for a second- "better get g-going."

"Just give it a thought, okay Kurt?" Mercedes says, putting a hand over his. "Here, take some extras. You're getting too skinny for my liking."

Kurt regrets snapping at her, knowing full well that she only meant good for her best friend. She's scooping a handful of the buns and a couple of apples into his sack, knowing that there often isn't much food leftover for Kurt after he makes dinner for the Tourneboulles. "Thank you, 'cedes. I'm s-sorry for snapping, b-but it's j-just so… unf-fair."

"Yeah, I know, baby."

He kisses her lightly on her cheek before he departs, the sack on his back feeling heavier than ever.

* * *

><p>The walk home through the shortcut in the woods has Kurt's head swimming with thoughts brought anew from his conversation with Mercedes.<p>

He tries not to think of his loss too much, simply because it would drive him insane to do so. It hurts too much, and his only way of coping has always been to push back pain and try to withstand Tourneboulle.

If he's being completely honest with himself, he _knows_ who he is: a man of noble blood and a descendent of the honorable Hummel clan. His bloodline leads him to patricians and aristocrats of all ages, and he has the right to marry royalty. As Mercedes said, he has _every _right.

However, one cannot deny that years of being a servant to one's stepmother changes one's mindset quite drastically. He knows that the 'mysterious disappearance' of his father's will was no accident, but he's been forced to ignore that if he knows what's good for him. One slip of the tongue will land him with a sharp backhand from Lady Tourneboulle's often ring-laced fingers, possibly leaving cuts. One step out of line, and he's denied food for several days. This is how it is living with an evil step-mother.

The crunch of autumn leaves under Kurt's worn leather boots makes a comforting noise as Kurt walks down the scarcely used path through the trees. This part of the woods is largely uninhabited, except for what is a suspected thug territory several kilometres over. Otherwise, Kurt's found his own little shortcut that is out of reach from the ruffians and is a more pleasant, more convenient walk from his (no, Tourneboulle's) manor to the markets. He makes this trip once weekly.

He does, however, carry with him a bow and arrow. A quiver holding sharp, iron-tipped arrows is slung over his free shoulder, ready to be pulled out at the first sign of danger. While this path is a fair way away from the thug's woods, they do sometimes stray away. This is only a precaution in case he does run into trouble.

Today seems, much like every other trip, uneventful. Kurt panicked a little way back when he thought someone had grabbed his arm, but it just turned out to be a branch that got caught on the sleeve of his well-worn tunic. He almost shot at it in surprise- he only just lowered his bow and saved his arrow in time. He is jumpy and wary beyond belief, but that is merely another side effect of his awful childhood, much like his stutter. His nerves do make him outlandishly observant, and while this paranoia is justified, it still isn't pleasant to live with.

Kurt's been walking for about fifteen minutes now. He's been watching his feet as he walks, stepping on any crunchy-looking leaves, and maybe the odd branch. Further down the self-made path is a dense, bushy area with thick foliage that surrounds the main path. He heads up a small a slope, well hidden by the tall verdure. He steps on a branch and it makes a satisfying _snap_ sound, but immediately after, the first sounds of a struggle infiltrate his ears from nearby. Immediately, he drops to a crouching walk, but he is thankfully out of sight from whoever it is on the other side of the thick bushes. The struggle is going on a fair bit away from the direction he's headed, but Kurt isn't one to turn a blind eye to those in need when they cross his path. Besides, he's armed- he might be able to help. He keeps climbing the slope silently, the slight height advantage given to him from the position of the slope allowing him to see what's going on with the cover of the shrubbery.

He can hear the grunts and sounds of impact- as well as the sound of an agitated horse. He moves an inch to the left and finds a small gap between the undergrowth and is able to watch the conflict.

As he'd suspected, it was a band of hoodlums from the occupied thug's woods. They seemed to be beating the living daylights of what he can only assume is a traveler. There's a little stream nearby- they probably ambushed him when he'd decided to take a rest. Definitely a traveler then, because all the locals know that this area is highly dangerous and would never dream of stopping here.

The poor guy's largely outnumbered- there are five thugs and only one of him. A large, white mare is tied to a nearby oak tree, bucking wildly, trying to get to her rider. They're only using their fists so far, and- _ouch, _the guy just took a hard one to the jaw- it just looks like an everyday, run-of-the-mill robbery. To Kurt's bewilderment the man doesn't seem to be giving in, either. The idiot, he'll get himself killed! All they want is your gold- you give it to them, they scuff you up a little, and then they're gone! Doesn't he know that-

oh, okay, so they don't like him fighting back. They've pulled a knife out on him. To be fair, the little man's held out admirably when he's so disadvantaged, he must be trained to some extent. However, it doesn't matter how swift, agile and precise he is with his fists if what you're up against is jagged, sharp, flesh-piercing metal.

Kurt's already loaded his bow, but he hasn't raised it yet. They'll be on him in a minute if he releases the arrow too soon- but if he's a second late, the traveler's dead. He's busy looking for an opening when the first thug gives the traveler a nasty nick on the bicep, earning a loud shout of agony from the victim. Although a fairly serious cut, Kurt can tell it's not lethal. At least, not yet. It looks like they've given up hit and run and are going in for the kill… time to move a bit faster-

Where did they pull that flanged mace out of? Oh dear lord, they've given him a blow to the head. This man is hopeless. Kurt decides it's now or never and he shoots an arrow directly into the hand of the man wielding the heavy metal club. The howl of pain makes Kurt wince, but two arrows later, he's immobilized most of the band of thieves. They can't seem to tell where the arrows are coming from (_loggerheaded dunces, I haven't moved an inch,_ Kurt thinks_)_ and are in a bit of a panic. They decide to run for it, having already knocked out and robbed what they could from the traveler and also having injured him enough that he'd probably die if left unattended.

Kurt waits until the coast is totally clear before racing down the slope and over the shrubbery. The man whose life he's just saved is still unconscious from the blunt impact and his arm is bleeding profusely, drenching his entire sleeve in a lucid dark crimson.

"Oh dear," Kurt mumbles to himself, seeing the depth of the laceration and inspecting the bruise to the head. He's already lost a fair bit of blood; he's most likely already lightheaded. The traveler's probably got more injuries on him, but he's got a scarf tied over his nose, covering most of his face, a big hood over his head, and his bulky, thick clothing obscures anything else. He's clothed head to toe in various layers, most of it travel clothing. The dagger had still managed to cut through several layers of heavy cotton as well as his tunic, staining the beige. His tough khaki robes had also been cut right through. The only remarkable thing about his outfit is that there is a strangely shaped whistle that hangs from his neck. There is certainly nothing spectacular enough on him to make him a clear target for a band of thieves.

He moves him (well, drags him) towards his horse and props him up against a tree, out of the way of the road so he doesn't get run over. His dead weight doesn't help make the task much easier, but thankfully he's on the short side. When Kurt's done, he glances towards his abandoned path and back to the injured stranger.

He could just leave him here. He'd done enough to save him as it were.

Who is he trying to kid, though?

Kurt sighs in surrender and settles his bow and burlap bag on the ground next to the inert traveler. He begins to rummage through the bag to find the fresh gauze he'd just bought from the apothecary in the market.

"You're lucky I remembered to buy dressing," he mutters, to no one but himself. He sits himself kneeling next to the knocked out man and gets to work.

He could easily have left this stranger on his own and not waste his supplies, but there was a very real chance he wouldn't wake up in time before the severe cut on his arm let him bleed to death. He used the water of his own little water pouch to clean the wound somewhat, and used a bit of dry moss he'd found to dab away the remainder of the blood. It took several washes and dabs for it to stop flowing as badly as it had before, but eventually, he was able to tie the gauze tightly around it, adding pressure to the wound and suppressing the blood flow. He uses a nearby branch to twist the gauze into a tourniquet.

Kurt's just finishing the knot around his arm when he feels the stranger stir. He freezes, not having thought of this as a possible scenario (that mace hit him_ hard_) and inspects the stranger's lidded eyes.

He opens them for just a few seconds, his pupils large and his irises honey, before moaning weakly and closing them shut again. Kurt releases the breath he'd been holding and keeps tending to him, now that he's asleep again.

Kurt is rubbing some healing salve (also from the apothecary) into the angry, inflamed bump on the stranger's forehead that knocked him out cold when the traveler opens his eyes again. Kurt registers that he's barely aware of anything right now, probably concussed, and so continues to rub the salve lightly into his forehead. For some reason, Kurt finds himself only comfortable when there aren't any (or any properly functioning) human beings around.

With the exception of Mercedes, of course.

The stranger doesn't close his eyes again this time, though. His eyes are slits, barely open, but he can still feel his gaze on his face as he begins to pack up. He's still watching him when he hoists the bag over his shoulder and picks up his bow. Kurt bends down to inspect him one last time, making sure he isn't in any moral danger. He squeezes his uninjured shoulder for luck, straightens up, and heads back to his shortcut. He'll probably get yelled at for coming back late, pushing back dinner (their old cook Agatha had been fired when Kurt learnt how to cook) and will probably be revoked of his own dinner rights tonight-

Ah, dinner.

He turns back around to face the man slumped against the tree, in his very robbed and empty state. He decides then that he is too damn generous for his own good.

"Ugh, alright then."

He marches back to him almost grudgingly, as if the man compelled him to do this. How could he possibly leave him without a morsel of food for the night, when he'd just been attacked and robbed for everything he's worth? Kurt feels around in the sack for a bit and digs out two buns and an apple from Mercedes' gift (thank the lord for that girl). The buns are still a little warm, good. The man stares intently at him from hooded eyes as he puts the food in his lap, pulling his limp arms around it to keep it there. It meant less dinner for Kurt, that's true, but he rations that he'd already had a bite at the bakery and that he'd have enough to last him until breakfast tomorrow.

With a final huff, Kurt nods at the figure on the forest floor in a hardly-acknowledged goodbye. Really, it was more of a nod of satisfaction for himself. He turns and walks back on track to his shortcut path, heading home to get yelled at indefinitely.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Much thanks to the lone reviewer! Also, this is the longest chapter I've ever written for any multichaptered story, huzzah.


	3. Chapter 2

A week later, Prince Blaine of Gaveston finds himself hopping off of his horse at the gates of the last noble home on his tour of Villon. Decked out in a royal tunic and a pair of light breeches, he stuffs his slightly ruined, heavy khaki robe into his saddle pack and heads towards the house. The bruise from the blunt force of the bludgeon still resides on his brow, almost mockingly matching the color of his aubergine shirt.

So far, he'd found several suitable candidates sprinkled over various kingdoms, but was still searching in the hopes of finding a match that lit a spark. Sure, the other ladies he'd found were lovely, but he had yet to feel that electricity with anyone. It was his last ditch effort, and since Villon was his last stop, he felt the need to give it just one last try.

According to his list, this is the house of Hummel, but is now occupied by his second wife, Lady Tourneboulle. The notes stated that the eligible suitors of this family were sisters by the name of Clementine and Beatrice, both the same age as Blaine himself.

_This is it,_ he tells himself. If he didn't feel that chemistry with either Clementine or Beatrice, he'd have to settle down with one of the women he'd deemed suitable without ever finding true love. After all, that was why his parents, the King and Queen of the mighty kingdom of Gaveston, sent him off on this tour to begin with. Blaine will be of age soon and they both knew that behind every successful man, there is a successful woman, so Blaine needed to find a wife as soon as possible. Their kingdom yielded no one that piqued his interest, so he'd been searching for that special woman in other kingdoms far and wide.

His tour was halted for a short while, because he'd gotten lost and was injured on his way to Villon. He'd been robbed and stabbed by bandits, left to die in the middle of the forest (now he knows he rode straight into thug land) and would have bled to death had it not been for a mysterious savior who chased the thugs away and patched Blaine up. It had taken Blaine a while to get to the castle on the far side of Villon, but once he did, he explained his situation to the reigning King and Queen of Villon and just like that, the entire royal staff were bent on making sure he healed as quickly as possible and replaced all of his stolen belongings twice over. Before long, Blaine was back on his feet (or back on his horse, whichever you prefer) and back on his search for Ms. Right.

It's past midday when Blaine walks up the long path leading up to the manor perched right on top of the hill by the forest that borders the two kingdoms.

* * *

><p>"...and you had better not step <em>one<em> toe out of line or I _swear_ to God, if you mess this up, there will be _hell _to pay," seethes Lady Tourneboulle from the kitchen threshold. Kurt nods silently as she turns on her heel and stalks away, no doubt to prepare her daughters for the arrival of Prince Blaine of Gaveston.

She'd just thrown a plate of eggs at him this morning, screaming that they were undercooked and what _was _Kurt, an invalid?

Kurt sighs as he turns back to preparing tea for her and her guest. She was obviously agitated about this visit. For a woman of her age, she was still rather built and taller than Kurt, and was in every sense intimidating. Kurt could easily take her, though, if not for his father's stupid, _stupid_ wasted last wish.

"_Take care of the family, son."_

He knows he meant his stepmother and his two stepsisters. And he supposes he kind of is, by being their servant. Every time the woman screams at him or smacks him or throws something at him, he always has to repress the part of him that wants to fight back. The sheer fear of her instilled into him since childhood also plays a factor, but while he is older and wiser, he still cannot help but be afraid. So he complies.

He peers outside the window of the basement kitchen, having spotted something out of the ordinary. Outside of the barn, on the outdoor posts, there was a new horse tied up and feeding on the oats from the trough. _This must be Prince Blaine's horse,_ he figures.

_He's here._

_The Prince is here._

* * *

><p>Upstairs, Lady Tourneboulle is busy in the graces of the charming young Prince Blaine, introducing him to her flawless daughters. She's formulated everything down to the last bobby pin- her girls are virtually irresistible.<p>

"It's lovely to meet you, ladies," Prince Blaine smiles, swiftly kissing their hands and bowing.

Lady Tourneboulle could practically _feel_ Beatrice swooning.

"The pleasure is all ours, your Highness," Beatrice beams, before Clementine cuts in. "It's an honour for us to be graced by your presence, especially here, in our humble abode."

"It's a beautiful home." Blaine says, glancing around.

"Thank you," Lady Tourneboulle says, ushering them all to sit down in the lounge. "Come, we'll talk in the parlour."

During the chat, Clementine is the very embodiment of grace. Her blonde locks are arranged in neat, shoulder length curls that bounce lightly whenever she tips her head back to laugh delicately at something Prince Blaine had said. Her pale, sage green day gown matches the soft green of her eyes, and she impresses Blaine with her fluidity in conversation and her soft-spoken sensitivity. Her posture is, of course, perfect, thanks to years of strenuous ballet study. Her femininity is charming in every way.

Beatrice is sat next to her with her legs folded in the same way. She is very starkly different to her sister, but no less desirable. She is just as beautiful as her fraternal twin, with her fiery ruby-coloured hair that frames her thin face and bright blue eyes that catch the attention of every man in the room. Of course, the only man in her sights today is Prince Blaine, who seems to enjoy her humour, wit and vast knowledge on many subjects, such as music. The Prince seems to perk up a little at his discovery that she is learned on the piano and as been playing for many years. Beatrice is only about to suggest they do a piano duet when her mother suggests that it's about time to bring out the tea.

The two sisters give a pointed look at their mother, which is returned with a subtle smile. They are doing _fantastically. _They are both the epitome of the educated, classy, noblewomen that Princes are sure to fall for. If things keep going as well as they have been, one of her daughters will certainly end up marrying into royalty by the end of this meeting. This set up is practically infallible- Prince Blaine will definitely be enraptured by one of her daughters, if not both. They are perfect in every sense.

"_KURT! TEA!" _screeches Lady Tourneboulle, making Blaine jump in his seat a little.

Within minutes, a servant boy pushes the heavy wooden doors of the parlor open with his back, precariously balancing two laden tea trays in either arm. He manages to make the walk from the door to the coffee table with a practiced ease and sets both trays down on the table, proceeding to set out the sweets and pour the tea.

Blaine notices that the boy's hands are shaking as he tips the elegant china teapots into their cups, and wonders what it is that makes him tremble so. He lifts his eyes for only a second to look at the boy's face, and the twist of familiarity he feels in his gut hits him as soon as his eyes land on his face. Blaine remembers his face indubitably, the boyish charm, the soul-chilling eyes, but he can't tell from where. It feels like the answer is just out of his fingers' reach. However, as this is vague recollection is happening, fate had decided that now would be the unfortunate time that Kurt's shaking hands would make him slip and spill steaming hot tea all over the esteemed guest of honor.

The boy's eyes widen as he realises what he's done and he hurriedly sets the pot back down and flushing an immediate, bright red. Kurt tries to say sorry, he truly means to- the word was right there on the tip of his tongue, but his damned _stutter_ stopped anything from coming out of his mouth, leaving Kurt making desperate, strange little 's' sounds in front of Prince Blaine himself. He's fumbling with napkins but before he knows it, there's a sharp, painful blow across his cheek and he's sent flying backwards, sprawled on the floor.

Blaine's eyes widen in shocked, appalled at her violent backhanding a servant for such a small mistake. "Oh _heavens,_ no, really, I'm _fine,_ but is he-"

"I'm dreadfully sorry," Tourneboulle grovels, completely ignoring Blaine's concern for the servant boy who's on his back, clutching his throbbing cheek. His eyes are focused intently on the floor. "good service is _so_ hard to come by nowadays, all we got was this _insolent _little-"

"Madam, really, it is quite alright," Blaine says, wiping some excess tea off of his darkened purple tunic. A glimmer catches his eye and he notices that the hand she hit the servant with had several gemstone rings on it. "That was hardly necessary."

But Tourneboulle is barely listening to him now. "Clementine, Beatrice- why don't you go find something clean for the Prince to change into, while I deal with… with this."

The girls get up in unison and they each tuck an arm under one of Blaine's, walking him efficiently out of the parlor to find him new clothes. Even as the heavy doors close, Blaine can hear the hysterical shouts of Lady Tourneboulle, who is now hurling grating abuse at the stricken servant boy. He winces as he hears the sound of a hand impacting skin, but they eventually get far away enough for the sounds of the parlour to die out.

* * *

><p>Once re-dressed in unsoiled clothes, Blaine returns with the girls back into the parlour to be met with only Madam Tourneboulle. The servant boy is gone.<p>

Although her daughters were nothing but polite and charming, the show of violence from their mother unsettled Blaine and it didn't sit quite right with him. It made him feel like there was a bubbling pit waiting to erupt behind this façade of a perfect family. There was something strange about this family, something unexposed, and it made him a little warier when they re-engaged into conversation.

After some neutral, mildly pleasant chit-chat, Blaine stands up and excuses himself to check on his horse as the ride here had been tiring for her. Tourneboulle forces herself to smile courteously and tell him _of course, your highness, go ahead_ when really, she's wondering how on earth a four-legged mammal could possibly be more worthy of his attention than her beautiful daughters. Inside, she panics a little, and once Blaine leaves the parlour to go to tend to his horse, she re-strategizes with her daughters. Their perfect performance this evening must not have been enough after all.

Blaine, however, has an agenda of his own. He'd seen the small quarters by the barn when he was tying his mare to the feeding post, which he now assumes is the place where the servant boy lives. The feeling of familiarity he felt when he got a mere glance of the servant's face flared with curiosity within him. That, and he is sincerely concerned for the boy. Those rings looked hard-edged and unforgiving, and Lady Tourneboulle hadn't exactly pulled her punch, either. He couldn't help but feel a little at fault for his unwarranted punishment. The boy had looked like he wanted to say something at the parlour, but seemed to have great difficulty making any real words form. Perhaps he was something of a mute?

The stroll to the stables at the bottom of the hill was short, and he is quickly re-acquainted with his horse. He strokes the mare's nose affectionately, knowing full well that she was fine the entire ride here.

Before long, he realises he is being watched. He turns to the wide open entrance of the stable barn and sees a scruffy little pup sitting in the doorway, its big brown eyes staring fixedly at Blaine. He cocks his head in his scrutiny.

Blaine decides then that the puppy is the cutest thing he's ever seen. He reaches into his saddle pack on the side of his horse and retrieves a handful of dried beef, to which he holds out to the little sandy-grey dog.

"Hey there, little fella." he coos, gesturing at the treat in his hand.

The dog seems to contemplate his offer for a minute, before giving in and running towards him as fast as his little legs would carry him. He eats bravely out of Blaine's hand, and he laughs when his tongue tickles his fingers. After giving the pup the treat, the pup decides that Blaine is a decent playmate, and begins to run in between his legs and nip at his boots, barking at him in encouragement.

"Hey, now- oi, ouch! No bites!" Blaine giggles as he turns the puppy on its back and tickles its tummy.

"P-Pav, where'd you go?"

Blaine stills his hands on the puppy as he hears the clear, high voice call out from inside the barn. The puppy, however, begins to struggle in his hands and tries to get back on its feet and off its back.

"Pav-"

Blaine sees the owner of the voice come out of the barn, and as he suspected, it is indeed the voice of the servant boy. So he _isn't _a mute. For a moment, he is able to really _see_ him. The sea-foam eyes, the pointed nose, the chestnut hair that is slightly askew, the pink, full lips- they ring a bell so loudly in Blaine's head it reverberates in his ears. For a minute, he is stuck in frustrating, unidentifiable recognition, staring in an uncomfortably scrutinizing manner as he tries to figure it out.

Until finally, _finally,_ it hits him.

"...You," he chokes, putting two and two together and gaping at the equally frozen boy in front of him.

* * *

><p>Kurt's mind is racing at a million miles an hour as his fingers dig into the side of the barn wall in the need to grip onto <em>anything<em> to stop him from falling over.

He had followed Pav after he'd disappeared only to find him playing with _Prince Blaine._

The very Prince he had spilt tea all over not an hour ago.

The very Prince who he'd been humiliated in front of by Lady Tourneboulle.

He stands rigidly in the barn's entrance, unmoving. The balls of his feet instinctively shift Kurt's weight, ready to pick themselves off the floor, but he resists. Blaine's eyes meet his and then it's all he can do to not run away. Blaine is so handsome it makes Kurt's heart ache, but right now, there's something similar to awe in his wide eyes. As if he's just made a discovery.

"I… I was just wondering… if you were alright," Blaine says, looking like he's struggling to keep his voice steady. "She hit you _hard."_

Kurt moves his mouth, poised to say _yes_, but his lips tremble and his tongue stiffens as his body betrays him once again. His jaw quivers as he tries his very hardest to sound the word, but nothing, nothing comes out.

Blaine cocks his head in confusion at him, which brings his embarrassment to a boil. His face is on fire, he can feel it, and the pricking of shamed tears to his eyes make him snap. Before any tears can spill, he turns and makes a run for it, giving in to his instinct to escape.

The puppy's out of Blaine's hands before he knows it, chasing after his troubled-looking master. Blaine runs after him, perplexed by the boy's botched attempts at talking. He _knows_ it's the same kid- it _has _to be. His features are so distinct. They're exquisite.

When he turns the corner of the barn door, the boy and the dog are nowhere to be seen.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I'm so elated that this story's getting a good response. I can only hope it stays that way, ahah.

Your reviews and readership make this writing all the more worthwhile, thank you.

And also, if any readers are in the path of hurricane Irene tonight, I hope you're staying safe! Tough it out, kiddies, and good luck.


	4. Chapter 3

Thankfully for Kurt, his next visit to his best friend Mercedes is only two days after the incident with the Prince. He is literally bursting at the seams with feelings and he needs an outlet desperately. Even Pav could only listen for so long before he started chasing his own tail.

"Cedes!" bellows Kurt, his pitch hysterically high, as soon as he swings through the wooden half-doors of the bakery. His burlap sack gets strewn carelessly against wall as he begins to pace the bakery, wondering where to start.

"Alright, alright, here's your tea." She says, sitting on a tall wooden stool in the corner of the shop. She's set another tankard of steaming black tea on the little desk, gesturing to Kurt. He stops his pacing to sit himself heavily on the stool opposite her. "Go ahead."

"Where to b-begin, jesus. You rem...member how you t-told me about that P-prince coming t-to the kingdom a week ago?"

Mercedes nods.

"He came… t-to the manor. T-two days ago."

"See! I told you he'd go to yours. How was it?"

Kurt's grip visibly tenses on his steaming mug of tea. "_A-awful."_

He spiels into a vivid recount of the Prince's visit, from the spilt tea to the one-sided talk at the barn.

"I sloshed the entire p-pot onto him, I might as well have doused him in it. He probably thinks I'm an invalid- w-why are you looking at me like that?"

Mercedes' face is a cross between concerned and intrigued. She's been studying the boy's flushed, pink cheeks and wide eyes as he's been talking. "You stutter a lot less when you start to rant."

"Yes, well, that's b-because I'm t-talking to _you_. Focus, 'Cedes, bigger matters at hand right now!" he says, rolling his eyes at her astute observation. Of course he doesn't stutter as much around her. He's comfortable around her, there's no need to fear. Prince Blaine, on the other hand…

"Right, yes, sorry. Anyway. So you spilt the tea," she urges on, sipping her own.

By the time he gets to the barn story and explains the cause of the bruise below his eye, he has to cradle his face in exasperation. While Mercedes is concerned about the bruise, she is no longer as concerned as she used to be. Sadly, these bruises have become the norm. That's life with Tourneboulle for you.

"..and after I s-saw him, the f-first thing he says t-to me is "...You.". L-like I was on his hit-list or s-something. And th-then he asked if I was al-alright… b-but, _swive*,_ this _bloody_ _stutter_ made me look like a cl-clay-brained _f-f-"_

The stammer's getting to him again, even though he'd been doing so well despite being so worked up. Perhaps there was a tipping point. He clunks the mug back down onto the desk and bites his lip from crying out in frustration. It doesn't work, as the high whine of anger that comes from the back of his throat escapes anyway. He stares intently at the wooden swirls of the surface before taking a deep breath, willing himself to just spit it out.

"_fool."_

Of course he's angry. Kurt never used to feel that the stutter and shyness was much of a hindrance because he never really interacted with anyone. TIt had never really impaired him until he needed it the most- when bloody _royalty_ visit the house that used to be his home. It is unfair that this fear-induced impediment should stop him from doing so many things.

Mercedes doesn't say anything, but places her warm hand over his. She strokes her thumb over his hand in a way that is always comforting to Kurt. She waits for his breathing to even before saying anything else.

"At least you'll never have to see him again." she says.

"I hope s-so."

* * *

><p>"P… Prince Blaine!" Madam Tourneboulle squeals, her eyes wide as saucers when she opens the grand wooden doors of their manor to reveal the short Prince standing on the other side. "We… we weren't expecting you!"<p>

"I'm terribly sorry for dropping in on you uninvited like this, Madam, but I… was close by, and thought to visit Lady Clementine and Lady Beatrice. If that's alright with you, of course," he says, in a cordial and respectful tone. There's really no way she can deny him much, but as royalty, he likes to maintain his air of grace and politeness. Besides, he needed her to like him as much as possible. "I found it _so _difficult to stay away." he adds, for good measure. It seems to work like a charm, and Madam Tourneboulle visibly softens at his words.

"Of course, your Highness!" she nods, gesturing her outstretched arm to usher him into the house. She curtseys slightly as he steps inside, being the ever-gracious host. "I'm afraid we won't be able to serve tea of any sort just yet, my lord. The servant's out at the market for groceries. Has your horse been..?"

Blaine tries to cover the falter in his smile. "Oh no, I don't want to be of much trouble. I've already tied the horse to the post myself, it's fine." he says, waving it off.

"I'll just go get the girls," Madam says, her hands clasped and her grin wide. "Please, make yourself at home."

She leaves him in the parlour, scurrying away as fast as her pinched toes would take her.

Blaine lets out a sigh once he is alone, running his palm through unruly curls. He raises a hand to check his sleeved arm, where there is a bound bandage underneath his clothes. It would be best if the questions about the wound were kept to a minimum, so he kept it discreet. It was healing and he could ride, but the bulk of the bandage was hard to ignore.

He had returned to the Hummel Manor in the pretense that he had taken to the two stepdaughters of the late Lord Burt Hummel. They were beautiful, they were elegant, they were bloody _enchanting_… but neither of the two was the one for him. He knows it in his gut and he can't help but feel guilty that he is, in essence, leading them on. It's hardly becoming of a gentleman to string these poor ladies along, but how else is he supposed to investigate the mysterious servant boy whom he's fairly sure was the one who saved his life?

"Prince Blaine!" trills a flustered looking, but very pleased Beatrice. It's a wonder how she didn't trip on her way down the stairs, with the pace that she's going. Her make up has been hastily put on, but a few minutes spared in front of the vanity is a few minutes extra that she gets to spend with the Prince of Gaveston… _without_ Clementine. "How wonderful of you to come visit again!"

Blaine puts on the most delighted face he can muster when he sees her walking down the large hall towards the sitting room, her shoes making a resounding _clack clack clack_ noise on the marble floor.

"Lady Beatrice," he smiles, "I simply had to see you again."

* * *

><p>If Lady Beatrice and Lady Clementine had been enthusiastic before, they were <em>mercilessly <em>so now. When Clementine had come downstairs to see Beatrice had gotten a head start, her charm was off the charts. Beatrice, obviously sensing her sister's competitive streak, matched up to her and became more talkative and touchy than ever. Anything Blaine said prompted her to touch his arm, grip his hand- her hand was dangerously close to his _ass_ at some point. It seemed that any notion of subtlety had been thrown out the window.

Blaine, being the big boy that he is, put on his brave face and withstood their unrestrained flirtations with as much valour as he could. It was exhausting, of course, but he managed to keep up with the dueling sisters admirably. In between words, he'd been watching the path that lead to the grounds, hoping to see a figure coming home from the markets. After the millionth unyielding glance out the window, he decided that the servant boy wasn't going to make a show any time soon and decided that he'd had enough courting for today.

"My ladies," he cuts in (at a probably inconvenient point of Beatrice's sentence), "I'm sorry, but as much as I would love to spend more time in your lovely graces, I do think it is time for me to go."

"B-but Prince Blaine!" Beatrice sputters, indignant. "I still haven't told you about that _dazzling_ time I-"

"Beatrice, sister, I think it wise we let his Lord go," Clementine cuts in, calm and feigning respect. She folds her hands in her lap before standing and taking a step towards Blaine. "While it is such a shame to see you go-" she bats her eyelashes at him demurely- "We will simply wait in eagerness for your return."

_She's really laying it on thick,_ Blaine thinks.

"As will I," Blaine says, thankful for her butting in. He takes her dainty hand and presses a chaste kiss to the back of it. "Really, I've had a wonderful time."

He doesn't miss the look of scorn from Beatrice to Clementine when he gets up to leave. Just to settle the score, he takes her hand and kisses it too. There, now you're even.

"Leaving so soon, your Highness?" asks Madam Tourneboulle, who had popped up out of seemingly nowhere. He starts a little at her voice, but smiles nonetheless.

"Thank you for having me, Madam. It has been most pleasant to have the company of your delightful daughters, but I'm afraid I should be returning soon."

Several cordial formalities later, Blaine is finally able to escape the manor and trudge his way back to his mare, who he'd tied to the outdoor post outside the stables upon arrival. His heart feels heavy. After all, he hadn't fulfilled his purpose of coming here in the first place.

* * *

><p>He'd seen the mare tied to the post by the feed, the same way she'd been when he first came here.<p>

Just his luck, hey?

After taking all the groceries up to the kitchen, he thought it wise to stay in the depths of the barn after the incident a week ago. The last thing Tourneboulle would need is for him to further taint the façade of a family she'd set up for the Prince to fall for.

It was quite a while before Kurt heard the telltale sound of a rustling horse come from outside the stables.

_He's a thin barn wall away_, Kurt thinks.

Timidly, his feet take him towards the wide entrance. Directly outside would be the Prince, most likely checking his horse before he rides. He's noticed that the man is quite gentle with his animals.

His heart is beating out of his chest with the mere thought of what he is contemplating of doing. Only hours ago had he spilled his utter humiliation in front of this man, wishing hard that he'd never have to face him again.

But he'd never apologized, and that simply wouldn't do. One doesn't pour hot tea over a _royal_ and walk away without saying sorry.

So with a deep breath, he bites his tongue and turns the corner of the wall. He is immediately met with the sight of the Prince (as dreamy as ever) whose back is facing him, readjusting the saddle on his horse's back. Kurt's light steps are noiseless as he takes a few tentative steps towards the man.

_Deep breaths, Kurt._ _Relax, and take deep breaths._

"I-I'm s-sorry for spilling t-tea on you, y-your Highness."

Blaine jumps about a foot in the air at the sudden voice and _may _have had to swallow an embarrassing noise of surprise in the back of his throat. When he turns around, he sees the blushing boy, the perpetrator, staring at the ground with his hands clutched tightly behind his back. Immediately, he relaxes, his hands steady on his horse, exhaling heavily.

"You surprised me," he laughs. The boy shifts his glance slightly on the ground, but otherwise stays still and silent.

"So you can speak after all!" Blaine says, cheerfully. Kurt blushes an even fiercer shade of red; whatever smattering of confidence he had is now gone. He knows he's only teasing, but it just makes him more ashamed of his impediment.

Blaine is met with silence on both accounts, but he isn't one to give up so quickly. He'd just been presented with a golden opportunity. Like hell he was going to let him get away this time.

He takes a hesitant step towards the boy, who upon closer inspection looks to be around his age. He also takes note of the stark purple welt on his cheek. His eyes go tender as he remembers the beating that Lady Tourneboulle had given him a week ago. The bruises are still there a week from then- god knows how bad it must have been initially.

"Oh dear," he says, softly. "that's quite a bruise."

He raises a hand to stroke his cheek instinctively, but drops it as soon as the boy flinches. His eyes search his withdrawn posture, his averted eyes, the thin line of his mouth, the flare of his cheeks. The way this boy carries himself looks nothing like the man who had chased away a band of thieves, patched up his life-threatening ailments and generously left him enough food to not go hungry that night.

Yet, here he stands, the very same.

"I'm Blaine," he pushes, holding out the hand he'd dropped while taking another confident step towards him.

The boy eyes his hand incredulously, unmoving. In Kurt's mind, thoughts are reeling as he registers that _the damn Prince_ is introducing himself as if he and Kurt were _equals._ Blue-blooded royalty in every sense, hand outstretched in such an establishing gesture of acquaintance. As if he didn't know that Kurt was the mansion's _servant_. A _prisoner_. As if he was bothering to get to know him.

"You shake it," he teases, grinning widely. Kurt forces himself to at least stare at the ground in Blaine's general direction before slowly putting his quivering hand in his and shaking it once briskly before letting go. "I'm K-" he starts, "K-" his head ducks further, feeling the burn rise on his face- "Kurt."

"Well, it's lovely to meet you, Kurt." Blaine says, sounding honest. Kurt doesn't quite buy into it, but offers a small, unsure smile and a nod before daring to meet his eyes for only the most fleeting of moments.

And of _course,_ they are _beautiful._

* * *

><p>Blaine leaves later that day, after being fairly unsuccessful at finding out anything of real substance about the enigmatic boy that is Kurt.<p>

_Kurt_, he thinks, as he canters leisurely on a wide dirt road. _His name is Kurt._

After officially introducing himself earlier that day (every gentleman ought to present himself to anyone new he meets, of course), he could not get him out of his mind. Everything was so strange, so contradictory. The stunted conversation they had after they shook hands was awkward at best. Blaine tried his very hardest to get Kurt to talk, but he was almost completely silent the whole time. He would nod and shake his head time to time, maybe a blush here and there, and met Blaine's eyes for a total of three times the entire conversation. Blaine found himself talking desperately to keep filling the silence, but his efforts only went so far. At times, Kurt would open his mouth as if to say something, but his jaw would twitch and he'd close his mouth again. Every time this happened, Blaine's stomach would dip in anticipation, wanting to hear that sweet voice again, to familiarize himself with it, only to be disappointed moments later. The few words Kurt did say were far and few between. He spoke timidly and softly, shyly averting his gaze. Blaine thought it endearing initially, charmed by this boy's delicate mannerisms. As adorable as he was, it didn't change Blaine's innate need to get to know this man, and his lack of talking was clearly an obstacle.

When Kurt started to glance back and forth between him and the mansion, he began to notice his anxiety. His eyebrows became ever-so-slightly skewed in worry, and his attention continually averted to the looming structure upon the hill.

Blaine was confused at first, and maybe a little hurt, but he soon understood. Tourneboulle would probably massacre him if he didn't get back to work, not to mention slacking off to talk to the Prince. Blaine had no misconceptions about his status and knew very well that ignoring the nobles to talk to their servants was unheard of. He shunned himself internally for possibly putting Kurt in more danger by talking to him and quickly excused himself. He could see Kurt's relief at not having to ask him to leave himself and wondered if he really was that unapproachable. As far as people go, Blaine reckons he's quite friendly. He frowns as he trots along, wondering what could have possibly caused Kurt to be so distant when he'd gone out on a limb to befriend him.

_Befriending him,_ Blaine agrees. _that's what this is._

When Blaine decides he likes someone, he will stop at nothing get to know them. And since this man had so selflessly saved him from mortal peril, he decides that he likes this man very, very much.

* * *

><p>*- 'swive' is the old english equivalent to 'fuck'.<p>

also, you have full permission to shoot me for taking this long to update. I am (as always) sorry, but life's picked up so there's not much I can really do about it.

I hope I haven't turned off too many readers yet, this story's got big plans!


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: **once again, unbelievably sorry about the delay, but school is literally eating my soul out from the inside. This course is absolute suicide. Take note, kids- _don't take IB. _I hope this makes up for the wait, dear readers, and thank you for reviewing. Reading your kind comments revives my dying spirits and will me to carry on~

(I'm not melodramatic at all you don't understand the hell that is school right now ugh)

onwards!

* * *

><p>That night, Kurt falls onto his makeshift hay bed, his mind dense with thoughts. He lies on a single cotton sheet, soft from wear but does little to hide the coarse texture of the dried grass beneath it.<p>

Not that Kurt isn't used to it, of course. This is the same bed he'd been sleeping in since he was seven.

There isn't much in the stablehand's room. A small dresser, a battered chair, and another little bale of hay for Pav. There was no reason for more furniture- after all, servants didn't tend to have very many belongings.

A dim candlelight shrouds over most things in the small side-room. Perched on a rusty old candleholder on the ratty chair next to Kurt's bed, it flickers unconvincingly in the cool night air as the only source of warmth and light. The old, worn patchwork quilt that sits on his bed is far more effective. It is the last thing his father had left him before he passed.

The cold, however, is just about the last thing on Kurt's mind right now. His mind is a askew with questions that have no fathomable answer, his feelings in complete disarray. An alien warm tinge in his gut when he thinks of molten bronze pools. The cold that settles in his stomach to assumptions of charity. The uncomfortable twist of hesitant suspicion.

_What is his edge? _

_What could he possibly want from a peasant like me?_

When the lines of consciousness are blurred, sleep finally overcomes him in the early morning hours. He will pay for it for the rest of the day, having only had such little sleep to battle so many chores with.

_I am breaking so many moral codes,_ Blaine thinks as he finds himself on his trusty mare once again, following the path up to the Hummel Manor that was slowly becoming more and more familiar.

He gave himself two days, so as to not seem too eager, but also to keep himself in check.

It was awful what he was doing to these girls. He tried kidding himself, pretending that a decent marriage prospect really was the reason he kept returning, but to no avail. The ladies were only a guise for him to go see Kurt. He could deny it as he might but his agenda remains unchanged. It was selfish, yes, and completely immoral and mean and inconsiderate and every other shameful word in the English dictionary but he simply could not stay away.

A Prince running after a servant boy. It was unthinkable. In all the fairytales he'd been told as a child, not once had the regal Prince ever sought after a mere maid. He would always fall in love with the Princess (also, never the Prince) and live, as they say, happily ever after. It was considered poor form to even consider courting a commoner.

Blaine's 'happily ever after' was really all he was looking for. A hopeless romantic like himself would never really settle with that aching in his heart to have something so fiery, so passionate and so true as opposed to a 'suitable match'. His parents sent him off to find someone appropriate; he set out looking for love.

He shakes his head at the thought. He did not _love_ Kurt. That would be ludicrous. He'd met him a grand total of three times, and the first two were so unorthodox they barely counted.

_Well,_ he thinks,_ I suppose we met when he saved my life, so it counted for a _lot.

That's the thing that binds him to Kurt. He is forever indebted to him. The Good Samaritan, the pure soul, the kind man who did all of this for a stranger. That sort of heart was rare, and Blaine was never one to squander good things when they came into his life.

It makes his own heart hurt when he thinks of someone so selfless and benevolent living under such cruel conditions. It amazes him how he's managed to stay that way.

_He must be so strong._

Before he could continue his internal soliloquy, he finds himself at the base of the hill. It is sundown, and Blaine brings his mare to a slow trot before stopping. The fading light hits the hills in such a way that makes them seem like they're sinking. The last of the blue sky is dying with the light as the pinks and purples dominate the sky. The clouds overhead stretch instead of puff, also colored in warm hues as it streaks beyond the horizon. The hill slants just so, making Blaine feel like he could run his fingers through the sky.

The outskirt of Villon is truly a beautiful place.

Kurt is so tired that evening he doesn't even notice the same white mare anchored to the indoor post of the barn instead of the one outside. To be honest, it's a wonder Kurt hadn't recognized the horse as the same horse from that day in the woods at all. It's late and his hands are red, raw and cracked from doing so much laundry by hand. He's running on barely any rest and is ready to pass out on the spot. He walks in a straight line from the back door of the kitchen to the back door of the barn, bee-lining for his bed.

There is nothing but the sound of his boots on stale hay until-

"Kurt!"

Kurt jumps and makes the most undignified yelp at the sound of the voice. It's dark and unlit in the barn, so naturally, he is terrified out of his wits. He grabs at the space on the wall where he knows he left the broom and holds it as if it were his bow and arrow, defensively pointed at the direction the voice came from.

"W-who's t-t-there?" he shouts, embarrassingly high. "Sh-show yourself!"

"It's just me!" the voice returns, a little panicked. Kurt follows the sound of shuffling with his still poised broom until the figure steps into the moonlight.

Kurt lets out an exasperated sigh, somewhat relieved yet filled with dread when he finds out whom it is. He lowers the broom when he sees hands raised in surrender.

"...Hi," the figure says, awkwardly half-waving.

Kurt means to say something, but once again, his tongue refuses to co-operate.

"I'm… oh, God, what am I doing here? I'm so sorry for dropping by unannounced, Kurt, but I was at the manor today and I wanted to see you but I couldn't find you after I'd left the mansion so I waited here, I hope that's not too improper- what am I saying, of _course_ that's not right, I'm sorry, you must think I'm mad, but I'm not, I promise, I just wanted to see how you were and I brought you some salve for your bruise, from the apothecary, and…"

Blaine spiels off for quite a remarkable time. Kurt is really unable to stop him in any way, with the whole speech defect and utter inability to form coherent words around this one bloody man.

"...and I'll just leave now, I just wanted to see how you were doing, and this is a little awkward, so-"

He fumbles with a little jar in his pocket and holds it out for Kurt.

To be honest, he knows Kurt's got his own little pot of it. He applied that very same salve to Blaine's own cuts and bruises barely two weeks ago, but that was unbeknownst to Kurt, of course. Kurt thinks he just spared a little medication for a struggling stranger. Blaine had brought it with him just so he'd have some sort of valid reason to go visit Kurt again. That, and he didn't want Kurt to think he was weird.

Kurt takes a step closer towards him, lightly treading the dried grass beneath them, allowing his face to be shrouded in moonlight like Blaine's. His eyes are hesitant, his brows furrowed in a slightly disbelieving, confused stare.

For the first time, Blaine sees how _aged_ Kurt looks. He knows he's only a boy- no older than seventeen at best- but the creases on his face speak volumes. His eyes are tired, tormented. His hands are coarse with work and though his arms are toned, they are thin and his skin is pallid and ashen. He accepts the little jar with both hands that always seem to have a slight tremor, prompting Blaine to discreetly sigh in relief.

It's a couple heartbeats' worth of awkward standing until Kurt finally breathes in and says, in one gust, "T-thank you, y-your Highness."

Kurt dares to look, for just a second. Their eyes lock as Blaine is smiling lopsidedly at him, making him hold the pot a little tighter to his chest. "You're welcome."

_If I had a copper piece for every awkward silence,_ Kurt thinks. He knows it's mostly his fault, being largely unable to hold up his end of the conversation with a man who has been nothing but kind and warm towards him, for no apparent reason.

"...It's late," Blaine says eventually. "and you look, you look tired. So I'll just- I'll just go-"

Kurt directs his eyes back to the ground when he mentions how tired he looks. He knows it's true, and it's embarrassing for the Prince to see him in such poor shape. However, it's a little reassuring to know that someone as put-together as Prince Blaine still got flustered time to time. It's rare to see someone like him momentarily forget his eloquence.

Blaine's hurriedly adjusting the bridle now and he's a little out of sorts, as Kurt can tell. All over the place, even. Is it possible that _he_ might have been the cause of that?

He looks like he's about to mount his horse, but instead he abruptly turns around again, startling Kurt. "Um, but-"

Kurt's starting to feel a little more comfortable about the fact that it appears that Prince Blaine himself is starting to have a couple problems with speech himself. It's a nice change to have others stumbling over their words instead of him.

"-can I... can I, maybe, see you again? I don't know, just to check up, or something-"

Kurt finds his jaw is slack at the request, in awe of the incredulousness of it all. The _goddamn Prince_ is asking for permission to see _him?_ What had this world come to? Nonetheless, he finds himself nodding despite the shouting voice in his head that told him to stay away and know his place. One does not deny royalty, after all. The hand around the pot of salve felt like it was about to shatter the small container because of how hard he could feel he was gripping it right now.

He didn't expect the Prince to crack into a wide (and _relieved?_) smile at his response. It made something flutter deep in the pit of his gut.

With one final nod, he swings a leg over the horse's saddle and bids him goodnight. Kurt can only raise a hand in return as the Prince and his steed set off down the mansion grounds and towards the path to the town Square, far away enough from the manor to go unnoticed by its inhabitants. He watches as the galloping figure grows smaller further and further into the distance, their beings shrouded in the bare light of the full moon and stars in the open grass.

The night is silent except for the loud, audible beating in Kurt's chest.

Blaine's visits become increasingly more frequent as the days go by, which is both surprising and unsettled. Kurt still doesn't quite understand his intentions or motive and is totally wary of how _bizarre_ it is.

The prince and heir of a powerful nation does not drop by on a servant's quarters in the middle of the night to say 'hello'. He certainly also does not make small talk and try to befriend said servant, either. It simply isn't _done._

By the fourth time Blaine visits, smiling that god-awfully bright, glaring grin of his, Kurt is no longer made nervous by his presence. Rather, he's becoming quite circumspect and questioning as to what this man's angle is. While he may have remained the panicked, stuttering bumble the first couple of times, he has spent enough time with the strange man to no longer blush so fiercely at his open gaze or avert eye contact completely. Although he is still shy during their talks, he is a little less embarrassingly so. Blaine honestly seems happy enough to be spending any time with him at all, which bewilders Kurt to no end. There had to be a covert motive, surely.

Kurt is also very aware of how so very charming this man is once he stops tripping over his own words as he did during their first midnight meeting. Though conversation is usually stilted due to Kurt's reluctance to talk and often his inability to form certain words, they managed. He would chat animatedly about anything and everything as Kurt would occasionally make a short remark, a polite smile on his lips whilst he contemplates the prince's mental health. On the odd chance that Kurt is able to formulate a coherent verbal response, Blaine's eyes would light and that stupid smile would grow even larger. While his gut would twist with unfamiliar feelings every time he did this, Kurt remained distant. He'd ended his business of trusting people a long time ago, and Blaine had bad news written all over him.

Tonight, however, Kurt is feeling particularly roused. Tourneboulle had been fussing over the upcoming masquerade ball at the castle- it was to be a grand affair; nobles from all over the area were coming to this annual social. The palace would be decked out in beautiful decorations and lords and ladies from Villon and beyond would mingle and dance and generally be merry. Kurt had heard all of this from Mercedes, of course, who knew the inner workings of most things in Villon, allowing Kurt to become only incrementally less sheltered than he was before. In her aggravation and stress of the fact that prince Blaine had not asked either of her daughters to go (after all, he'd been visiting them so frequently it seemed completely warranted), she had taken out her irritation on Kurt. It ended with him being denied dinner because the hem of Clementine's gown for the ball had been slightly off-kilter. Kurt was no seamstress, but it wasn't as if it was unforgivably bad, either. The demon lady had also thought to have him run every possible ridiculous errand she could possibly think of, just because she could. Kurt's pretty sure he's hurt his back from lifting some of those garden stones today, as he soothes his sore back muscles whilst walking back to his stable quarters in the dead of night.

_I've definitely pulled some muscles,_ he thinks, grimacing. That would make scrubbing the floors absolute torture tomorrow.

_The rack would be better than facing that satanic wench. _

What _really_ set him off today was the fact that Blaine remained in the stables after bidding the ladies in the house good-afternoon, leaving them to tend to their dress adjustments. Kurt had been coincidentally bringing extra horse feed from the store room in the manor, and had only set the heavy sack down when he sees Tourneboulle exit from the kitchen's back door, screaming at him to do the dress alterations. Blaine was literally two steps away from entering her line of sight (the stable entrance was very wide and open) before Kurt jolted forward and shoved him back into the wall.

"W-what are you d-doing here in _b-broad d-daylight?" _Kurt had all but shouted, momentarily gaining courage to yell at the man at his outright idiocy. Blaine had seemed taken aback at his burst of incredulousness, but seriously, had this man no mind? If Tourneboulle had seen him waiting in the stables to talk to _Kurt_ after having bid goodbye to her and her daughters _hours_ ago, she would have skinned Kurt from head to toe. He certainly thought it wasn't beyond her to do so- once, when he was younger and had burnt dinner, she placed his hand one of the hot pans he'd just used and left him with red, angry, blistered burns on his palm for weeks.

Blaine had seemed utterly clueless as to what was going on, and that was when Kurt finally decided these meetings couldn't go on. They were far too dangerous and risky and the consequences would be infinitely worse than several backhands to the cheek, that's for sure.

Kurt told him to return late that night despite being thoroughly drained and depleted, to talk this out properly. He needed to settle these midnight meetings once and for all.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: **the amount of new readers and reviews on this story has baffled me beyond comprehension! thank you so much for all of your wonderful support, it makes my heart swell to dangerous sizes :')

I'd like to thank **muchacha11 **for her truly flawless illustration of this fic; thank you sweetheart because I've never had anyone do that for anything I've ever made before. It really was a milestone moment and I teared up a little, I won't lie! You can find this gorgeous drawing on my **tumblr**, linked on my **profile.**

also, lastly- I'm away for the next week because I'm on a community service trip to a poor area of China, so there won't be any new updates for Embers or 1-800-SOS this week. My apologies, dear readers, because I know I'm slow to begin with, and this just postpones everything that much longer. I pulled all nighters to finish this chapter though, so I sincerely hope it will be enough to tide you over until then! I hope this meets your expectations and that you enjoy it, because things are beginning to culminate and I'd hate for you stop reading now ;)

* * *

><p>Blaine never showed that night.<p>

"KURT!"

His bones are tired and his muscles ache, but Kurt still finds it within him to follow the shrieking voice and see what Tourneboulle wants. It is mid-morning and Kurt is still fighting sleep as it keeps threatening to claim him.

"Yes, M-Madam?" he asks as he stands meekly in the gap of the ajar foyer doors. His hands are folded behind his back as usual in a stance of subservience- reflexive, first nature behaviour.

"There you are, _Kurt,_" she croons, a devilish smirk on her face. "I needed your oddly feminine talent at altering gowns. Beatrice's hem isn't _quite_ right, and we need it to be _perfect_ for the ball come the end of this week."

The Noblemen's Masquerade Ball- an annual affair at the castle in which every lady or lord that was of age was invited to attend. As long as your family name was listed in the aristocrat registry, you were guaranteed entry into the most lavish ball Villon has the honour to host. This year was extra special, as there would be the presence of a Prince among the ladies and lords.

Of course, Kurt is of aristocratic heritage, and was in all technicality invited to attend, as he, Beatrice, and Clementine all came of age this year. While the girls hosted an opulent party at the manor in light of their coming of age, Kurt celebrated his seventeenth birthday with some stolen fruitcake from the kitchen that he shared with Pav in the stables. He'd stopped his silly habit of wishing over candles years ago and hence opted to forgo the custom.

While Kurt had the royal permission, the royal _obligation_ to attend_,_ it wasn't as if Tourneboulle would possibly let that simply happen. That, and the fact that Kurt had nothing more to his name than worn tunics and servants' breeches, and a masquerade outfit was required for him to go.

"Of course," he mumbles. "w-what would you like me t-to do?"

"Well," she begins, in that same patronizing, phony tone. She looks over at Beatrice who stands on the raised platform, wearing her beautiful silk masquerade gown. "Her dress' neckline needs to be lowered, because it seems as if the Prince has yet to come to his senses. Perhaps a more plunging reveal would do the trick."

Kurt nods mutely at this, knowing how to do the difficult alteration after years of experience. As he sets about doing this with the small sewing kit Tourneboulle's given him, he can't help but stare at the beauty that was Beatrice's gown. The emerald green of the rich silk is a perfect choice for her debut; the fiery rouge of her hair complimenting the earthy tones wonderfully. The embroidery on the bodice is a virtual work of art, made of the highest quality deep green lace. The vines of embroidered thread seemed to have moulded into Beatrice's narrow form- it hugged her so tightly one could not help but be drawn to her tiny waist and curvy bust. Dark jade contour seams led the eyes down to the bodacious skirt that trailed behind her in thick layers of expensive material, making her seem more like a princess than ever. A man would be a fool to not fall for her in this dress.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Tourneboulle says smugly as she notices Kurt's obvious awe at the dress. "Wait till you see Clementine's."

"Mother!" Beatrice exclaims, deeply offended.

"You mustn't worry, sweetheart. She may have the prettier dress, but none will look as good as you do in yours."

This seems to appease her slightly and she stops shuffling on the platform long enough for Kurt to start hemming the skirt.

"This ball will be absolutely _lovely_, darling," Tourneboulle coos. "Think of all the _nobles_ that will be there- you'll finally be around company of the same stature."

Kurt grits his teeth and keeps sticking needles into the dress.

"I still can't believe Prince Blaine hasn't had the good sense to ask either of you two yet." she sighs, frustrated.

"Neither can I," Beatrice replies, flatly. How arrogant.

"No matter, I feel he's been visiting the manor far too frequent for this to come up short." Tourneboulle says, sounding confident. "It should only be a matter of time."

"What if I attract other noblemen with my debut, mother? Should I reject any advances on courtship?"

"Ah, no- string them along. We don't know which of you two Blaine will choose yet, so it would be wise to keep your options open."

Beatrice's eyes darken in competition, but she says no more.

Kurt finishes hemming the skirt and Beatrice gives him the dress to do more alterations to the bust line. She hands it to him wordlessly. The lack of acknowledgement or direct address reminds Kurt that although they may be step-siblings, she will never see him as anything more than a servant, bloodline or not.

"Kurt," Tourneboulle says, right before she leaves the parlor for Kurt to clean up. For a fleeting second, he thought she'd actually thank him for his services. It was a silly thought that was instantly proven wrong. "I invited the Prince to come to the mansion this afternoon. Have tea prepared by three."

He nods silently in lieu of words and she leaves him alone to gather the sewing kit and remains of hem. With a heavy sigh, he closes the clasps of the sewing box and stands up waveringly.

He'll have to talk with him tonight.

Kurt actually serves tea again that night, his hands as unshakable as he could possibly make them to avoid another humiliating debacle. He feels Blaine's eyes on him every now and then, but thankfully the prince has the good sense to ignore him otherwise. If he had so much as uttered an amiable sentence to Kurt, it would have already sparked suspicion in Tourneboulle. No, she thinks that they've never spoken to each other in their lifetimes. It has to stay that way if Kurt wants to keep his limbs.

After serving the tea, Kurt decides to eavesdrop and watches the interaction through a sliver of space between the heavy parlor doors. Beatrice has a coquettish grin on her face as she leans in to talk to Blaine, puffing her chest out in an attempt to get the Prince in a more improper fashion. While her rack is considerable, Blaine remains a polite gentleman as always and never even glances at her breasts. He's far more invested in Clementine's raised topic of kingdom warfare (which Kurt knows for a _fact_ that she had absolutely no interest in) than he ever was in Beatrice's bust. He almost giggles out loud but bites his tongue to stop himself.

"Blaine, darling, I was just wondering if you were taking anyone to the ball next week-end?" Tourneboulle inquires, appearing innocent, but Kurt knows her agenda is positively brimming with intention.

"Actually, madam," he says with that same soft tone, "I'm not taking anyone to the ball. The King advised me to... k-keep my options open, so to speak."

He can practically hear the sisters' hearts drop into their stomachs.

"I'm terribly sorry if you were expecting me to take one of your daughters- oh no, my dears, you mustn't- because if I _were_ taking someone, I'd most certainly be troubled by the decision of having to choose one of you."

_There he goes with the sweet talk again._

"That's a shame," Tourneboulle muses, sounding strained. "but I trust my girls will have your hand in at least one dance?"

"You have my word, madam. I would be honoured."

Kurt walks into the stables and momentarily leads a familiar white mare out of the line of sight of the manor windows.

_At least he was close this time, _Kurt thinks. One time, he'd forgotten to move her in at all and left her out on the outpost. Boy, did Kurt have a fit at _that_ one.

"What k-kept you the other n-night?" Kurt asks when he notices Blaine sitting on a haystack, trying not to nod off. His legs are crossed and he looks as if he's been sitting like that the entire time, waiting for Kurt to arrive. It was the sort of thing Pav did.

If anything, they've become casual friends. It's an odd thing to say because friendship with royalty was not something that was considered casual in itself. Rather, it was the polar opposite- the little library in the manor certainly never held any fairytales that spoke of the unlikely friendship.

He straightens up and beams at Kurt in greeting. "The King wanted to have a serious chat with me," he says. "I'm sorry."

Kurt makes a noncommittal sound, not quite sure why he was apologizing, but he turns towards Blaine anyway. Blaine looks like he's about to open his mouth to say something, so Kurt cuts in before he can get anything out.

"I need t-to t-talk to you."

He can just make out Blaine's face in the dim candlelight of the stable lamps, so he strikes up a match to light a few more in the room. He'd made it a habit of lighting those because of these midnight meetings, too. "What's up?"

Kurt's thought long and hard about how he'd approach this while clearing up the kitchen pots earlier that evening. The words are in his mind, and he's surprised to find that they leave his mouth with more ease than he'd expected.

He climbs onto the haystack where Blaine is perched, crossing his legs as he stares at Blaine boldly. There had been a time where he couldn't even make eye contact with this man, let alone openly confronting him, but his queer actions had made him wary. He wasn't nervous any more; he was defensive. No sane Prince willingly befriends someone of his status. He doesn't know anything about Kurt. He doesn't know about his pitiful stance as the subservient aristocrat. 'Cinderfella', the crueler villagers called him. To this day, he doesn't know what he did to be so alienated in Villon. They pity him but that's all they do- no interventions, no reclaim of status, no respect- nothing. He still doesn't know if Blaine has malicious intent. He doesn't know what Blaine's intention _is._

He takes a deep breath and levels his voice.

"W-Why do you come here at night, B-Blaine?" he asks, eyes hard and steely.

Blaine looks a little taken aback, slightly fazed. There's a silent, pregnant moment that follows when this time, it's _Blaine_ that fumbles for words.

"Well, um, we're friends, aren't we?"

Kurt's eyes remain unwavering.

"We w-weren't always."

Blaine's eyebrows are skewed in confusion as he frowns. "I don't know what you're insinuating, Kurt."

Kurt sighs impatiently, temper running short following his exhaustion. He rubs his grubby fingers into his temples before saying, "W-we need t-to stop this m-midnight rendez-vous."

"Oh, did you want to go to bed? Sorry, you must be tired- I'll just come back la-"

"N-no, B-Blaine," he says, annoyed. "_these_ meetings have t-to stop."

"Why?"

The question turns out to be the straw that breaks the camel's back. In a second, Kurt's fuse incinerates and snaps as Kurt goes from agitated to outright hysterical, breaking the restrained and calm persona and unleashing a lifetime's worth of frustrations on a man that didn't quite deserve it. His voice, usually soft and high, becomes scratchy, guttural and crazed.

"Why? _Why?_ B-Blaine, d-do you not see the absolute _l-lunacy_ of-" he gestures his arms wildly between them, "_this?"_

"I-I don't understa-"

"P-people like _you_ and p-people like _me_ _can't be friends! _D-Do you know w-what the villagers say about me? They think I'm t-tragic. Th-that I'm a lost cause. They _p-pity_ me and I'm the village s-sob story. The commoners d-don't even t-talk to me! I am the _lowest_, B-Blaine, and people like you d-don't make friends w-with p-people like me so would you just t-tell me _what your d-deal is?"_

"I don't see why-"

Kurt is shouting now, frustrated tears prickling his eyes as his words seem to skim right over this stupid man's thick skull.

"You're a _P-Prince, _B-Blaine! W-When will you start _a-acting_ like one, damn it?"

The air is quiet after those words leave Kurt's mouth. Kurt is breathing heavily after the outburst, chest rising rhythmically as he stabilizes himself. Blaine is glassy-eyed, resolutely staring at a patch of hay.

His rage is not fuelled by the fact that Blaine always visits him when he's ready to drop with fatigue from single-handedly running a cruel woman's household. It's not by the fact that he will most definitely be denied permission to go to a Ball he's entitled to, either. Kurt is losing his marbles over being exasperatingly frustrated by how unwarranted Prince Blaine's behaviour is. He's _confused_- he can't understand why Blaine does this and it's driving him nuts. He's spent countless nights after a visit from the curly-haired monarch perplexed in his hay bed, mulling over this bizarre habit in vain.

The next words he says are quiet, solemn admittances that Kurt has been bottling up ever since Blaine first decided to address him directly.

"...y-you're out of your p-place. And I'm out of m-mine. I d-don't know what you want f-from me, b-but I don't have anything to give you. I'm a _f-footman. _A _servant. _I have n-nothing."

Blaine remains surprisingly quiet and stays still. He appears pensive.

It then settles in Kurt's gut that, despite all these meetings and how friendly Blaine has gotten, he is still the crown prince of Gaveston. He still holds one of the most powerful titles in the nation and is still to be regarded with utmost respect and dignity. Kurt has admonished him before- for leaving the horse out, for coming to visit at inconvenient hours- but he feels that this time, he may have overstepped. He might have just signed his death warrant- who knows? People are unpredictable. They change in the blink of an eye. Kurt's forgotten that and now, he'll face the repercussions.

Blaine watches the bizarre transformation out of the corner of his eye. Within seconds, Kurt has changed from a shouting, delirious fit to concave shoulders, darting eyes and worried lips. The tremble in his hands are back and it's like a trigger has been pulled in him. A dual personality, an alternate being, a _different _man. When Kurt was shouting at him, his eyes were fierce and alight, _exposed,_ but those same eyes are now dull and diverted again. They don't dare to stray away from his lap. This shaken boy is the Kurt he met during his first visit to the house of Hummel. The man before him was the Kurt he met in the woods.

Instead of taking Kurt's harsh words to heart, he instead digs his arm into his leather shoulder bag and pulls out part one of what he came here for.

Without a word, he holds the roll of parchment out to Kurt. The dim light makes Kurt seem smaller somehow, vulnerable, and his gut twists uncomfortably as he waits for him to take the document from his hands.

"I did some research on you after I heard rumours in the town square."

Kurt looks up, eyeing a face that isn't looking back. Blaine is gazing to his side, steadfastly looking away from Kurt's eyes that were bright with emotion. The fire in his eyes has withered, quelled with intrigue to Blaine's unexpected reaction.

Gingerly, he takes the roll of parchment from his hands, which drop to his lap resignedly. One last glance at Blaine's diverted eyes, a questioning glare that goes unanswered, and Kurt unrolls the scroll to find not one but several pieces of paper. The first one he sees is an official document; he can tell from the gold seal of Villon on the top of the page.

_Lord Kurt Eugene Hummel _

_D.O.B Twentieth of April, 1422_

_Born in Hummel Manor, the Kingdom of Villon _

_to her Lady Elizabeth Hummel and Lord Robert Hummel the Third_

_Son and Heir to the House of Hummel's fortune, title and clan by birthright unless unfit to do so, as signed by the current Lord of the House_

Quilled underneath this is his father's messy scrawl of a signature, agreeing to the terms set by the document.

Kurt has never seen these documents before. The only copies that existed in the world were the ones his father withheld, which of course Tourneboulle had never shown him, and those that were kept in the Royal Directory of Villon.

Behind this is a clipping of an old monthly obituary announcement from ten years ago, where he sees his father's name is listed under "Noble Deaths". Below it, after a page break, is a much longer set of columns with names that don't have 'Lady' or 'Lord' before their names.

Last, but not least, is another clipping, this time of a local gossip magazine that was issued in the eleventh month of 1430.

_Mysterious widower Lady Tourneboulle announces tragedy_

_Sadness is upon us today, people of Villon, as it appears that the seemingly sweet boy of the late Lady Elizabeth and Lord Hummel is sick in the mind._

_Lord Hummel's second wife and the current Guardian of the boy, Lady Tourneboulle, has made an official announcement regarding the tragedy._

_The boy of eight years has been reportedly possessed by evil spirits in the mind after his father's untimely death, causing him to think disturbing thoughts and act in an violent, unpredictable manner. Tourneboulle has retained him under the intention of keeping the public of the kingdom of Villon safe. Until he is of enough mental stability to leave the home, all are asked to stay away from the Hummel grounds and the boy._

_News of this also means that it is likely for the Hummel bloodline to die out, should the boy be unable to produce an heir because of his illness. Either way, this means that Madam Tourneboulle, an enigmatic woman, is currently the head of the family as the child is indisposed to do so._

_This means danger for one of the oldest families in Villon's noble registry! With luck, we'll find a woman willing enough to lie with him and the heritage may live on yet._

While Kurt reads, Blaine remains unmoving on his haystack. Kurt's eyes are wide and disbelieving when he looks up after reading the last clipping; thoughts racing through his mind at the velocity of light. His skewed eyebrows and baffled, hanging jaw prompt Blaine to start talking again.

"...You didn't tell me you were of noble birth."

Kurt's still a little incapacitated with shock, but he chokes and sputters something out anyway.

"I... I-"

"Had almost forgotten?"

There is anguish in Kurt's face and Blaine immediately wishes he'd bitten those words back, or at least substituted them for something less crude. Kurt shakes his head, his lower lip visibly trembling. Words were beyond him now- they'd been beyond him for a while, actually.

Before Kurt knows it, the emotions throttling inside him become too much as a bolt unscrews loose after ten years of torment. Tears finally surface and pave their course silently down Kurt's face. Droplets find their place on the documents in his quaking hands, but Kurt can't bring himself to wipe them away or even move at all.

Several moments of embarrassing himself under the watchful scrutiny of the Prince of Gaveston go by, and he's feeling more pathetic by the minute.

_I know who I am_.He's been telling this to himself for years. _I know who I am._

It's becoming easier to forget.

_I knew who I was._

It takes a stagnant moment and several seconds of debating impulse on Blaine's part before Kurt finds himself liberated of the pieces of parchment and being wrapped in solid arms, crying into a warm, broad shoulder. At this realization, Kurt is unable to stop himself from releasing an audible, wet sob into the fine fabric of Blaine's tunic, gripping his own rough hands around the prince just as tight. He's never been held like this... or has he? Can he truly remember the wholesome, hearty hugs of his father? The soft, delicate hands of his mother? Can he really remember everything he used to have, without it simply being another discoloring memory from better days?

It's been too long. We forget and memories fade away, replaced by the glaring vividness of the unromantic present. We need someone who will remind us to remember.

For now, though, Kurt savors this, as it's the first time he's been held in ten long, lonely years. He marvels at the warmth of having another's body pressed against him- the comforting hand around his shoulders, the steady heartbeat of another's against his chest- and for just a moment, he chooses to forget just _who_ Blaine is and simply accepts that he is in the arms of his_ friend_, being comforted as friends do.

"It wouldn't have mattered if you _weren't_ an aristocrat, you know. I'd still have befriended you. You're a wonderful person." he whispers, his voice so tender it aches to listen.

It's all Kurt can do to not cry harder. He shakes his head into Blaine's shoulders in denial, but the prince only grips him tighter and shushes him. The question as to _why_ remains unanswered, but Blaine is holding him like he'd never let go and his heart is thudding under his thin frame, feeling a closeness that hadn't been felt in much too long a time.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Times are hectic, readers. Time is scarce and energy is even more so. I'm surprised this ever accumulated into a full chapter at all, with my schedule. I'm terribly sorry if this isn't progressing as quickly as you hoped it would, because that is certainly the case for me.

Also, I wanted to clear up a common misconception I've been hearing quite frequently with regard to Embers:

Kurt is of _noble_ descent, and is a _lord_in his Kingdom, but he is **not** a _Prince._ Blaine, however, is the son of the current reigning King and _is_ a Prince. Noblemen and women are eligible to marry into royalty, but they remain below them on the hierarchy otherwise.

Also, 98 reviews. I'm about to cry with blatant joy. Thank you for sticking with me. 3

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><p>They stay like that until the tears and hiccups subside. Kurt feels like a child, being comforted and cradled in unfamiliar yet reassuring arms. Solid, sure, firm arms that hold him tight as the last dregs of tears are squeezed from his drying eyes. The fabric of Blaine's shirt is patched with wet spots, but he shows no sign of bother, and to be honest, Kurt's reluctant to move. He feels weak, drained, and it seems all he can do is curl his fingers slightly around Blaine's back to resemble a poor excuse for a hug. His breathing, though still shaky, eventually tapers out and evens as the night becomes quiet again except for the sound of their breaths in the barn.<p>

Kurt's thoughts begin to reorder themselves as his rationality returns, but he tries to delay any real thought for as long as he can while he revels in the heat of another body being pressed tightly against his. Soon it is calm, and he is simply being held in the close embrace of an unlikely friend. That is what he has deduced this to be, and of this he is certain. Blaine's warmth seeps through his tunic into Kurt's cheek, chest, and arms, enclosing him in a little human alcove of ease and solace. He turns his face further into the Prince's chest, allowing to kid himself for only a moment that the friendly gesture may have been founded from a fonder place.

Before long, Kurt begins to feel that he has been held for too long and begins to pull away from contact; a little surprised to feel that Blaine's movements are reluctant. He sits cross-legged across from Blaine once more, gazing down at his open palms.

"I'm s-sorry t-to have b-been so foolish."

"You needn't apologize for something like that," the Prince assures, smiling ever-so-gracefully.

The moment that follows is silent; the static electricity in the air tangible and startling on their skin. There is only a beat skipped when a hand slips into his and they are connected once more. The act is gentle, tender and altogether not a thing that mere comrades would do. Hugging was one thing, holding hands was an entirely different package altogether.

The initial shock of the action had worn off when Kurt realized that once again, Blaine was breaching levels of intimacy he'd long forgotten and found him more than welcome to do so. Kurt has had enough of wondering _why him?_ Tonight, so he gives in to his screaming heart that palpitates just slightly when Blaine squeezes his fingers, happy that that Kurt didn't pull away. But just as Kurt was ready to drop the question, Blaine was just about ready to finally pick it up.

Blaine had brought something with him in his saddlebag. Tonight had an eventful agenda; one he had decided was long overdue. He was killing two birds with one stone tonight- it had been weeks and weeks of visits and Blaine's time in Villon was becoming extraneous.

"...I _did_ come here with more purpose tonight."

Kurt looks up to see soft eyes framed by a slightly lilted angle of dark lashes, looking at Kurt as if he was the only man alive. His cheeks alight at the tender gaze but he does not trust himself to speak, and so he only squeezes his hand lightly to prompt him further.

The Prince effortlessly scoops Kurt's other hand into his, holding both their hands up between them as a man would do to his maiden. He looks at Kurt earnestly, uncertainly as he presses a tentative, chaste kiss onto the knuckles of his right hand; then his left.

It's the second time Kurt's brain short circuits that night. The thick, very unsubtle line between friendship and courtship had been purposely and conspicuously crossed in a matter of seconds.

It was common knowledge throughout the land that a kiss on both knuckles was a request for courtship.

"Would you, Lord Kurt Hummel of Villon," he breathes, "accompany me as my partner to the Noblemen's Ball come this week-end?"

Kurt is certain that his impression of a cod is positively laughable right now, as his jaw has unhinged as the Prince of Gaveston, the very same who has just _asked for his hand in courtship_, watches him with open, amber eyes as he waits for his response. The fish out of water simply gawps at their joined hands, unable to fully process the indications of his actions.

He realises he must have kept silent for too long when Blaine finally lowers their hands, looking defeated though valiantly trying to hide it.

"I... understand that you may not... enjoy the company of men, as I do, but I simply had to try," he says. He is sad-sounding and his head is certainly not held as high as it was before. "I'm sorry if I'm overstepping."

_You are,_ Kurt thinks, but of course, that never gets said aloud, because Kurt's tongue is lead in his mouth and his hands feel like clumps of ice at the end of his wrists. The nerves in his head are sparking off at the speed of light, desperately searching for _reaction,_ anything, anything at _all_ to somehow piece his frenzied mind back in order. The only nerve impulse that makes it is the one to his neck, causing him to shake his head once, very slightly, as his jaw remained slack and slightly agape.

The tiny gesture feels like a sledgehammer in his chest. The ever-growing lump in his throat rises uncomfortably as the full extent of rejection settles in his gut. His brow is a little wet from nervousness despite the night chill and his face is burning in embarrassment. He's grateful for the dim lighting because Kurt won't be able to see the full extent of humiliation registering on his face, which had always let on more emotion than he meant.

Maybe it's because he's the Prince, or maybe it's just because of Kurt, but Blaine hadn't expected it to hurt so much. He acted upon a silly little crush he'd developed on a man- a _boy_- that had unbeknownst to him had saved his life, and he ended up shooting an arrow into his own foot. But Kurt seemed so fragile, so gentle, so frail- it was almost as if Blaine was delusional enough to buy into to all the stories they'd read to him about the 'knight in shining armour' when he was a child. Of course, he was heir to the throne, so he could have never been a knight, but he'd managed to delude himself into thinking up this ludicrous image of grandeur. Blaine moves to pull his hands away from Kurt's, feeling his palms grow clammy as the pain of rejection sunk its teeth further into Blaine's gut. He'd kidded himself into thinking that he'd come in and swoop the man or woman of his dreams off their feet, whisking them away from distress and loving each other forever and ever until they die.

His eyes widen when he realises he can't pull his hands away.

Kurt is holding on, gripping tight.

He doesn't want Blaine to let go.

"...Kurt?" he dares to inquire, voice sounding small and tentative. Kurt still has the same open-mouthed expression he'd had when Blaine first asked, and he's beginning to grow more worried for the boy than he is for his own confused feelings.

The word seems to cause something to click in Kurt's mind as he flutters his eyelashes and blinks, snapping his jaw shut abruptly. He looks disoriented, almost dazed. Then, he looks back at Blaine with those wide, doe eyes and shakes his head again, almost imperceptibly.

_You can't go to the ball with me._

Blaine bites his lip at the lack of actual response, trying hard to keep his hands as still as possible in Kurt's grip, as if a slight shift could warrant him to take his hands back and push Blaine away.

_We're both males. This is Villon, not Gaveston- they'd be outraged._

_I have no appropriate attire. I do not have permission from my stepmother to go._

_You are the esteemed guest. All eyes will be on you and who you choose to bring to the ball._

_I have been a servant for ten years. I never learnt proper social etiquette._

_I cannot waltz, nor can I dance to anything else. I'll be an embarrassment._

_I am uncultured, unrefined, and uneducated. _

_I know nothing about being a nobleman._

_The kingdom thinks I'm ill in the head._

_You don't want to show up with me on your arm._

None of Kurt's thoughts ever leave his mouth. His throat is parched and dry as every possible reason why he cannot comply to Blaine's request lists themselves in his mind. He can't go, he _can't_ go.

But god, does he want to.

Words have once again failed him. Blaine is waiting, so patiently, for a straight answer.

Kurt does what comes easy. He stops thinking about things to say, how to say them, and what they mean. Instead, he takes their joined hands and puts it on his own chest, letting the beat of his heart pulsate through his shirt and into their hands. There, he shifts his fingers to intertwine with Blaine's, letting his eyes droop and close at the sheer intimacy of it. He levels his breathing before looking up to meet Blaine's gaze again, willing him to understand _why_ this simply cannot be.

He shakes his head again, harder this time, pointedly looking at their tangled fingers, then back at Blaine.

_You can't go to the ball with _**me**.

His mother always taught him that if you really, _really _wanted something, you had to try really, _really _hard. Part of really, _really_ hard entailed not taking no for an answer. The monarchs of Gaveston were characteristically hardheaded and determined, and Blaine was not unlike them. He had a slightly more gentle nature than, say, his iron man of a father, but he had been taught strategy in combat and battle growing up and was fully armed to organize a crusade with effective structuring.

All of that was useless against Kurt. He couldn't really do anything but grovel at this point. While Blaine is royalty, his mother had also taught him to never be proud.

Kurt looks at him in a way that _can't_ mean no. He looks at him like he wants to pull him into those blue pools and keep him there forever. There's no way he's saying no because he's not attracted to him because he can feel the pull between them, intoxicating and strong for something so intangible.

And yet, he is shaking his head, gripping Blaine's hands so strongly they may bruise.

Blaine is so confused.

"May I know... why?" he questions, feeling Kurt's hands tremble whilst his grip falters almost imperceptibly at his words. He can feel the pulse of Kurt's hands beating fast and frequent under his touch, so he knows it isn't only his heart that's racing.

He's amazed how much he can learn from Kurt without him ever having to say a word. Sure, there are still some gaps, but Blaine likes being able to pick up a feeling or two based off of a gesture or a look or even the chemistry of his body. He thinks that, in time, he could potentially read all of Kurt without any semblance of speaking.

He does hope they'll do more speaking, however, even if Kurt rejects him completely after tonight. The stutter is barely noticeable when you're listening to a voice as delicate and light as Kurt's. It sounds like a voice that is a little creaky and dusty after years of being seldom used; an old antique left in the attic to gather dust through years of being hidden away; stagnant.

"Please tell me."

Deep breaths, re-organize thoughts, focus on the hard letters.

"F-frankly, I don't f-fit in. I d-don't want to emb-barrass you."

Blaine's mouth opens to protest, but a surge of courage in Kurt's heart tells him with a steely eye that he is not finished.

"I didn't get t-taught how to b-be a gentleman growing up. I'm j-just as clueless as a c-commoner about n-noble formalities. I... I wouldn't b-belong, B-Blaine. You'd be b-better off t-taking Clementine or- or-"

Cue sharp intake of breath, because Blaine is sitting much closer than he was two minutes ago and his face is really quite close to his. Kurt marches on.

"...B-Beatrice. I'm n-not worth your r-reputation here, and b-besides, T-Tourneboulle would n-never let me go and I haven't any p-proper attire. They'd b-be scandalized to see _me_ at the b-ball, _everyone _in Villon knows I'm- w-wait, where are you-"

Blaine had scrambled off the haystack rather ungracefully somewhere while Kurt was talking, leaving Kurt's hands empty and cold. He stumbled his way in the low light to his stationed mare to fumble around in the saddlebag, where it seems he has brought even more things with him. He takes out a sizeable bundle of cloth and resumes his position on the haystack. He sets it in his lap and takes Kurt's hands once again.

Blaine forces his stare onto Kurt, fixed with an intense, soul-boring gaze on ambivalent blue that wavers but never fully strays away. He needs to truly, truly witness this in all its open honesty because he knows. He just _knows_.

"Look at me in the eye and tell me you don't want to go to the Ball with me."

"I-I can't-"

"Tell me you don't want to."

Though his stare of intent is strong, his eyes are pleading. _Please, please, please feel what I feel._

"Look at me and tell me."

"_I can't," _Kurt shouts, despaired.

_Shouts. _Blaine pushes.

"But you'd like to."

Kurt is frustrated by Blaine's insufferable attitude. He's already gotten him worked up to the point of sobbing; what more could he possibly want? Did he want an outright proclamation of Kurt's magnetism towards him? The inherent forces of attraction between them?

Kurt sobs dryly in defeat, emotions flaring in his chest but restrained by the tight coil of his throat.

"Yes."

Blaine breathes a sigh of relief and swallows his noise of joy at the admittance.

"D-Did you just want t-to hear me say it? Yes, I want t-to go to the B-Ball with you, b-but if they see the village madman d-dancing with the P-Prince-"

"You forget, dear Kurt-" Blaine interrupts, hand pulling something out of the bundle of rich cloth in his lap. "-that this Ball is a _masquerade,_ and that you will be wearing..."

Blaine makes quick work of the silk ribbon, tying it deftly behind Kurt's head.

"...a mask."


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: **I hope all of you had a wonderful christmas! Have a new chapter.

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><p><em>"Is it you that you fear they may react to, or your gender?"<em>

"_...b-both, really."_

"_I'm the Prince of Gaveston, Kurt. No one's going to arrest me for being with another man, either way. And they won't know who you are, nor will they ever find out. It'll be fine."_

Blaine had left in the middle of the night after their heated argument had settled and drawn to a close. He assured Kurt that the part of the woods he sneaked in on was perfectly safe and far away from thug dwellings, as they soon realised that the main entrance of the Hummel grounds would be far too risky as it was in plain sight of the mansion.

They had agreed on a plan. Kurt would leave the mansion with Blaine twenty minutes after his stepfamilies depart on their carriage. Blaine would wait in the wings of the forest in the secluded watchspot he'd found and they would rendez-vous at the stables once he sees the women are gone. Blaine will bring him a change of formal clothing as well as his mask, and from there, they'd arrive at the Ball late and hopefully be able to slip in without much cause for notice. He would bring Kurt back to the mansion before midnight, when the Ball was due to end, and say his goodbyes and leave before the Tourneboulles return.

Kurt had decided on his own that he'd at least gather up the nerves to ask Tourneboulle for permission, in the infinitesimal chance that her frozen heart might thaw just enough to let him go.

The morning of the ball was an opportune time to do so. Tourneboulle was in good spirits because of tonight's festivities and Kurt had overheard her talking to the girls last night- they had devised multiple ways to get Blaine into their arms and so her plan was set. She did seem excited, more so than nervous, so Kurt decided that this was now or never and leapt at the chance when serving her morning tea.

"M-Madam," Kurt stutters, looking bashfully at his feet after placing Tourneboulle's flawlessly laid out platter on the dining table. "I w-wanted to ask if y-you would g-grant me leave for t-tonight's B-Ball... I am still n-noble by b-birth, so in t-truth, I am eligible-"

A sharp, cutting laugh interrupts Kurt's humble mumbling and causes him to look up at the grey-haired widow.

"You jest," Tourneboulle says, chuckling disbelievingly. "Surely, you jest."

"...N-No, Madam. P-Please, may I go?"

She shrieks again, incredulous, and the tiny light of hope begins to dwindle into darkness in Kurt's chest.

After her mocking laughter ceases, she looks back at the red-cheeked, skinny boy standing before her and studies him with more scrutiny than she had ever cared to before.

He is broader now- that has come with age and labour, so perhaps he is no longer skinny... lean, rather. Tall and lean, but with a face so feminine no woman would ever fall for him and expect him to provide for her.. his rosy cheeks, pointed nose- why, he looks like a doll. A noticeable scar from an accident in the kitchen on his neck; countless other minor scars all over his arms and legs. Calloused hands, rough skin, toughened nails and chapping lips. Threadbare clothes, tired stance and woefully pitiful eyes. Tousled mousy brown hair, unstyled, unfashionable. This boy was no gentleman. He would never be able to scrounge up something appropriate to wear, let alone act as a sophisticated man would in that setting.

He wasn't fit to go to the Ball as one of noble status. He was far from it.

A pang of sadism runs through Tourneboulle as her eyes remain on the humiliated boy.

His lack of worldliness was hardly the biggest issue- how could she possibly forget? The boy was labeled _insane, _for heaven's sake. No one would touch him with a ten foot pole; they'd treat him as if her were diseased. The townspeople stay well away from him for a reason, and a good one at that. He'd show up in his dirty rags and clumsy behaviour and cause a _riot._ Tourneboulle could feign oblivion, and he'd be chased out of the hall. Perhaps then he'd learn to not have the audacity to ask her permission for things like this. Maybe then he'll learn his place as her servant and not her adoptee. Perhaps then she'd finally make concrete exactly who he is and where he stands. Her lips curl at the thought of playing with his mind and the cogs in her evil little mind turn. With a snap of her fingers, she commands the dispirited boy's attention once more.

"You may go," she says, evenly.

The boy's eyes widen and she almost scoffs with the way they light up like a child's. Much too easy.

"...However, I have a list of chores I need you to do by the end of today. Should you finish them in time for the Ball, you also have to find yourself _appropriate_ formal garments. Should you be able to do that as well, you will also have to figure out your own way to the ball. But otherwise, yes, you may go."

Kurt doesn't believe it- he has her permission to go. He lets himself have a fleeting moment of joy and relief until it comes crashing down on him minutes later when Tourneboulle entails exactly what she meant by 'chores'.

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><p>Kurt's hands are unsteady as he clasps the bridles on the horse and hands the driver the reigns. He opens the door of the carriage for the girls, his moist palms clasped tightly around the knob as he shifts his weight imperceptibly on the balls of his tired feet. Clementine and Beatrice are doing a final run down of their outfits and hair, even though Kurt can't see a single fault from where he's standing no less than five feet away. Even in the early moonlight, the girls look impeccable and surreally beautiful. He is wistful that he could never possess a beauty as radiant as theirs, but he is grateful that he is aware of the ugliness that lies beneath their skin.<p>

It is now nightfall and Kurt is only half way through the list of chores Tourneboulle has set for him. He almost wants to cry in frustration as Tourneboulle herself finally comes up the the carriage steps, smiling at him condescendingly with utter malice.

"See you at the Ball, perhaps, Kurt?" she says, prompting a bout of derisive laughter from the girls already seated in the carriage. His eyes twinge with angry tears but he tightens his throat and grits his teeth, unwilling to let her have the satisfaction of seeing him cry. With a final smug grin and a coy wave goodbye, the carriage is off and Kurt is left behind in a cloud of dust, coating his already dirty clothes in another layer of filth.

He lets out a single, quiet, frustrated sob before turning on his heel and going back into the mansion to scrub the foyer floors, wash the rest of the dishes, dust the entirety of the library and do all the laundry Tourneboulle had given him this afternoon.

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><p>Kurt makes his way down to the stables before doing continuing with his chores. His disappointment still burns the back of his eyes and makes that lump rise in his throat but he's not going to let Blaine see how upset this makes him, either. He's already seen him compromised one time too many, and it certainly wasn't something Kurt liked others to witness often.<p>

As planned, Blaine is in the stables waiting vigilantly for Kurt's arrival.

"B-Blaine, I-"

Kurt is stops mid-sentence when Blaine steps out into the moonlight towards him, several stalks of cut wild roses in his outstretched hand. He himself wears a jittery, lopsided grin besides an impeccably fitted formal outfit in royal purple shades.

"You... b-brought flowers."

"Of course." he says, still smiling. Kurt takes them gingerly from Blaine, careful to not touch his hands. He holds the stalks tightly as he stares at the flowers in awe, admiring their gorgeous coral-pink hue as he cups the petals of one of them. He'd never been given flowers before.

"They're b-beautiful."

Blaine's grin gets wider at Kurt's mumbled words, but the expectancy in his smile grounds Kurt once more.

"...I'm s-so sorry, B-Blaine, but I c-can't go."

Blaine's face falls immediately and Kurt rushes to explain why he can't go. He watches Blaine's face twist from hurt to confusion and finally, to anger. He'd never seen Blaine mad before.

"…She can't just... raise your hopes like that, only to crush them and- that's just so _cruel_- I mean, no, I know she's awful to you, but to mentally hurt you like that is just so _twisted_..."

Blaine vexes the sheer _unfairness_ of it, the formal tunic's wide sleeves swishing in the air as he gesticulates wildly with his arms. He paces in front of Kurt, and every time he swivels on his heel, Kurt marvels at the way those pants fit so _snugly_-

"...what have you got left to do?"

"W-What?"

"Your chores."

He counts them off on his fingers and concludes a grand total of four chores left to do. The ball is due to start within the hour, but it takes another half hour for everyone to really trickle in. All in all, he has just under an hour to make it to the ball.

"This will at least b-be two- m-maybe even_ three _more hours of work, B-Blaine." Kurt says, helplessly. "I can't- I'll have to miss the b-ball. You g-go ahead, they'll b-be expecting- h-hey, what are you doing?"

At this point, Blaine has unbuttoned his fitted vest and pulled his tunic over his head, exposing his strong, bare torso and making Kurt very flustered indeed. He folds them as neatly as he can and sets them aside on a high stack of hay.

Ignoring Kurt's question, he starts at the button of his dress trousers before responding with one of his own. "Have you got a spare pair of breeches? I don't want to get these ones dirty- plus, these aren't very comfortable, they're prone to riding up my-"

"B-Blaine, surely you're not-" Kurt interjects, voice high and tight at the sight of Blaine unfastening his pants right before his eyes.

"What?"

The pants drop and Blaine is left in nothing but his undergarments. Blaine is in the barn, right outside Kurt's servant quarters in _nothing but his undergarments._ And, well, shoes, but _undergarments._

Kurt's turned his face away in modesty, trying his very best to not focus on _undergarments_ and fighting the burning rush of blood to his cheeks. This isn't proper at all, especially not for a first _date-_ is this what it was, a date?

"You're p-proposing to help me d-do my _chores_?" Kurt asks.

"Was that not obvious?"

Something inside of Kurt feels deeply touched, but is also troubled at the notion.

"You're royalty, B-Blaine. You've p-probably never worked a d-day in your life, you can't d-do a servant's work-"

"I most certainly can!" Blaine squawks, and it's not right for someone to be so be so indignant when they're so _naked._

"Will you _please _p-pull your p-pants up- and no, I m-meant that you _c-can't _do _servant's _w-work, you're a P-Prince, for heaven's-"

"And this _Prince_ would like to go the Ball with their _date_! And a pair of spare breeches, please. It's breezy in here."

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><p>In just over an hour and a half, the dishes have been washed, wiped and placed back in their respective cabinets, the library books have been freed from their dusty clutches, and the floor of the foyer is sparkling clean. The latter was due to Blaine's utter vigor and enthusiasm at performing the task and the fact that Kurt's hands were red and raw from the garden work he had to do earlier today.<p>

"We've m-missed the opening, B-Blaine." Kurt says as he locks up the kitchen's back door.

"No matter!" he says, bouncing next to Kurt as they begin to walk (sort of run, really) down to the stables to get themselves into their ball clothes. "I'm sure they won't even notice."

_Of course they will,_ Kurt thinks, but he doesn't really want to ruin Blaine's constant upbeat optimism he's had throughout the night.

Once back in the stables, Blaine once again unceremoniously disrobes right then and there, causing Kurt to once again blush like the virgin he is. Before he does drops his breeches (which may have been the pair that Kurt had fixed the seams of to make them a little more form-fitting, admittedly), however, he hands Kurt what he'd picked out for him to wear for the night. Kurt thanks him shyly and hops into his quarters to change.

The silk of tunic Blaine had brought him hung a little large for his thin frame, but the beautifully embroidered gold vest is tight around his form, highlighting his embarrassingly ladylike waist. He slips on the rest of the outfit (a tanned leather belt and tight tights), all made of luxurious fabrics he'd never dreamed to ever wear, before slipping on a pair of pointed, soft leather shoes that were a little too large for his feet. With a final tug to the laces, he stands upright. He readjusts his vest one more time before finally tucking his hair into a little gold-feathered cap that sat quaintly on his head. With a lack of mirror, he tries to look at himself the best he can, and sighs in resignation as he figures _I guess that's as good as it's going to get._

A deep breath later, he walks out the creaky door to face Blaine once more. He's still shrugging his doublet on when his eyes catch Kurt in the dim light.

"I d-don't look right."

Blaine just blinks, still gazing with intent on Kurt's being. Under scrutiny, Kurt caves his shoulders and turns away to fuss with the flowers Blaine had gotten him earlier today. Cheeks are pink again, no doubt. He's about to put the stalks in the safety of an empty drawer in his dresser, but a hand is on his arm before he can go.

"I think you look wonderful." Blaine breathes.

Their eyes meet for an electrifying moment, making Kurt's skin feel alive under Blaine's gentle hold on his arm. They look away only seconds later, Blaine making it a point to walk to the horse while Kurt walks into his room.

His heart palpitates and his brow slicks as he remembers that he's going to Villon's masquerade ball with Blaine. _Prince _Blaine_,_ next in line for the throne in the mighty kingdom of Gaveston- but mostly Blaine. He's really going to do this.

He smiles, though. _Really _smiles. He's as nervous as a sinner in a church, but by God, he's excited. This is the first time in a long time that he's doing something for himself, and it feels like he's about to conquer something great. He is going to go to the ball with a lovely, kind, and sinfully good-looking man and he is going to enjoy himself, for just one night. For just one night, he's not going to be that poor Hummel boy, noble servant and certified psychopath. Tonight, he's going to be a mysterious, nameless Lord on the arm of Prince Blaine, but a Lord nonetheless.

"Ready to go, Kurt?" sounds Blaine from outside his quarters.

He's standing next to his horse, matching purple masquerade mask tied around his neck. In his hand is a similar one in gold. He's smiling, too- wide, toothily, and just as excited as Kurt.

He walks up to Blaine to take his own masquerade mask, shy as usual but bravery brews inside of him when he's around Blaine and he decides to let a little of it out. He leans and places a dry, quick kiss to Blaine's cheek that doesn't last more than half a second, but the look on Blaine's face afterwards makes his heart swell. His look of awe shifts into one of genuine joy, the grin returning goofier and larger than ever. They smile like idiots at one another for a moment before Kurt speaks.

"Thank you for helping me with m-my chores."

"Thank you for agreeing to be my date."

Blaine reciprocates and plants his own kiss on Kurt's cheek, a firm, whole-hearted kiss that is bolder than Kurt's and makes him yelp in surprise. He gets on his horse and then offers Kurt a hand to help him up. He swiftly lands on the saddle, pressed up against Blaine's back, and proceeds to tie the masquerade mask over his eyes. His hands find their way to holding Blaine tentatively around the waist, but Blaine takes his hands and yanks them forward, forcing him to hold onto Blaine in earnest. He can feel Blaine's chuckle rumble through his torso through his back and every shifting of his stomach when he breathes. He presses his cheek into the back of Blaine's shoulders as Blaine kicks his horse lightly in the side and they begin a slow trot out of the barn, eventually turning into a canter as they enter the open space of the Hummel grounds. By the time they begin to gallop, Kurt's arms are holding tight around Blaine's waist and Blaine can't imagine a time he's been in better spirits than he is in this very moment.


End file.
